THIS  SLENDER  GIRL  DUMFOUNDED  THEM 


Frontispiece  Page  41 


CROOKED  TRAILS 
AND  STRAIGHT 


BY 

WILLIAM  MACLEOD  RAINE 

] ' 

AUTHOR  OF 

BRAND  BLOTTERS,  BUCKY  O'CONNOR, 
MAVERICKS,  WYOMING,  RIDGWAY  OF 
MONTANA,  A  TEXAS  RANGER,  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

D.  c.  HUTCHISON 


GROSSET  &  DU  NLAP 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 

Made  in  the  United  States  of  America 


CorntlGHT,  1913,  BY 

G.  W.  DILLINGHAM  COMPANY 


Crooked  Trails  and  Straight 


CONTENTS 

PART  I 
CURLY 

CHAPTER 

I.  FOLLOWING  A  CROOKED  TRAIL      ....         9 

II.  CAMPING  WITH  OLD  MAN  TROUBLE   ...  23 

III.  AT  THE  END  OF  THE  ROAD 33 

IV.  THE  CULLISONS 49 

V.  LAURA  LONDON 60 

VI.  A  BEAR  TRAP 74 

VII.     BAD  MEDICINE 84 

VIII.     A  REHEARSED  QUARREL 94 

IX.     EAVESDROPPING IIQ 

X.     "STICK  TO  YOUR  SADDLE" 131 

PART  II 
LUCK 

I.     AT  THE  ROUND  UP  CLUB       .      .      .       ,     •  *43 

II.  LUCK  MEETS  AN  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE       .      .  151 

III.  AN  INITIALED  HAT *57 

IV.  KATE  USES  HER  QUIRT 169 

V.     "AIN'T  SHE  THE  GAMEST  LITTLE  THOROUGH 
BRED?"  I7& 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

VI.  Two  HATS  ON  A  RACK     ......  194 

VII.  ANONYMOUS  LETTERS 200 

VIII.  A  MESSAGE  IN  CIPHER 213 

IX.  "THE  FRIENDS  OF  L.  C.  SERVE  NOTICE"     .  220 

X.  CASS  FENDRICK  MAKES  A  CALL   ....  233 

XI.  A  COMPROMISE 245 

XII.  AN  ARREST 254 

XIII.  A  CONVERSATION 265 

XIV.  A  TOUCH  OF  THE  THIRD  DEGREE      .      .      .  270 
XV.  BOB  TAKES  A  HAND 282 

XVI.  A  CLEAN  UP 294 

XVII.  THE  PRODIGAL  SON 312 

XVIII.  CUTTING  TRAIL 316 

XIX.  A  GOOD  SAMARITAN 323 

XX.  LOOSE  THREADS -   .  337 


Crooked   Trails   and   Straight 


PART   I 

CURLY 

CHAPTER  I 

) 

FOLLOWING  A   CROOKED   TRAIL 

ACROSS  Dry  Valley  a  dust  cloud  had  been 
moving  for  hours.    It  rolled  into  Saguache 
at  the  brisk  heels  of  a  bunch  of  horses  just 
about  the  time  the  town  was  settling  itself  to  sup 
per.     At  the  intersection  of  Main  and  La  Junta 
streets  the  cloud  was  churned  to  a  greater  volume 
and  density.    From  out  of  the  heart  of  it  cantered 
a  rider,  who  swung  his  pony  as  on  a  half  dollar, 
and  deflected  the  remuda  toward  Chunn's  corral. 

The  rider  was  in  the  broad-rimmed  felt  hat,  thd 
gray  shirt,  the  plain  leather  chaps  of  a  vaquero. 
The  alkali  dust  of  Arizona  lay  thick  on  every  ex 
posed  inch  of  him,  but  youth  bloomed  inextinguish 
ably  through  the  grime.  As  he  swept  forward 

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CROOKED    TRAILS   'AND   STRAIGHT 

with  a  whoop  to  turn  the  lead  horses  it  rang  in  his 
voice,  announced  itself  in  his  carriage,  was  apparent 
in  the  modeling  of  his  slim,  hard  body.  Under 
other  conditions  he  might  have  been  a  college  fresh 
man  for  age,  but  the  competent  confidence  of  man 
hood  sat  easily  on  his  broad  shoulders.  He  was  al 
ready  a  graduate  of  that  school  of  experience  which 
always  holds  open  session  on  the  baked  desert. 
Curly  Flandrau  had  more  than  once  looked  into  the 
chill  eyes  of  death. 

The  leaders  of  the  herd  dribbled  into  the  corral 
through  the  open  gate,  and  the  others  crowded  on 
their  heels.  Three  more  riders  followed  Curly  into 
the  enclosure.  Upon  them,  too,  the  desert  had 
sifted  its  white  coat.  The  stained  withers  of  the 
animals  they  rode  told  of  long,  steady  travel.  One 
pf  them,  a  red-haired  young  fellow  of  about  the 
same  age  as  Curly,  swung  stiffly  from  the  saddle. 

"Me  for  a  square  meal  first  off,"  he  gave  out 
promptly. 

"Not  till  we've  finished  this  business,  Mac.  We'll 
put  a  deal  right  through  if  Warren's  here,"  decided 
a  third  member  of  the  party.  He  was  a  tough- 
looking  customer  of  nearly  fifty.  From  out  of  his 
leathery  sun-and-wind  beaten  face,  hard  eyes 
looked  without  expression.  "Bad  Bill"  Cranston 
he  was  called,  and  the  man  looked  as  if  he  had 
-earned  his  sobriquet. 

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CROOKED    TRAILS   AND   STRAIGHT 

"And  what  if  he  ain't  here?"  snarled  the  fourth. 
"Are  you  aiming  to  sit  down  and  wait  for  him?" 

"We'll  cross  that  bridge  when  we  come  to  it," 
Bad  Bill  answered.  "Curly,  want  to  ride  up  to  the 
hotel  and  ask  if  Mr.  Dave  Warren  is  there?  Bring 
him  right  down  if  he  is." 

"And  say,  young  fellow,  don't  shout  all  over  the 
place  what  your  business  is  with  him,"  ordered  the 
previous  speaker  sulkily.  Lute  Blackwell,  a  squat 
heavily  muscled  man  of  forty,  had  the  manner  of 
a  bully.  Unless  his  shifty  eyes  lied  he  was  both 
cruel  and  vindictive. 

Curly's  gaze  traveled  over  him  leisurely.  Not  a 
muscle  in  the  boyish  face  moved,  but  in  the  voice 
one  might  have  guessed  an  amused  contempt.  "All 
right.  I  won't,  since  you  mention  it,  Lute." 

The  young  man  cantered  up  the  dusty  street 
toward  the  hotel  Blackwell  trailed  toward  the 
windmill  pump. 

"Thought  you'd  fixed  it  with  this  Warren  to  be 
right  on  the  spot  so's  we  could  unload  on  him 
prompt,"  he  grumbled  at  Cranston  without  looking 
toward  the  latter.  } 

"I  didn't  promise  he'd  be  hanging  round  your 
neck  soon  as  you  hit  town,"  Cranston  retorted 
coolly.  "Keep  your  shirt  on,  Lute.  No  use  getting" 
in  a  sweat." 

The  owner  of  the  corral  sauntered  from  the  stable 
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CROOKED    TRAILS   AND   STRAIGHT 

and  glanced  over  the  bunch  of  horses  milling 
around. 

"Been  traveling  some,"  he  suggested  to  Bad  Bill. 

"A  few.  Seen  anything  of  a  man  named  Warren 
about  town  to-day?" 

"He's  been  down  here  se-ve-re-al  times.  Said 
fie  was  looking  for  a  party  with  stock  to  sell 
Might  you  be  the  outfit  he's  expecting?" 

"We  might."  Bad  Bill  took  the  drinking  cup 
from  Blackwell  and  drained  it.  "I  reckon  the  dust 
was  caked  in  my  throat  an  inch  deep." 

"Drive  all  the  way  from  the  Bar  Double  M?" 
asked  the  keeper  of  the  corral,  his  eyes  on  the 
brand  stamped  on  the  flank  of  a  pony  circling  past. 

"Yep." 

Bad  Bill  turned  away  and  began  to  unsaddle.  He 
did  not  intend  to  volunteer  any  information,  though 
on  the  other  hand  he  did  not  want  to  stir  suspicion 
by  making  a  mystery  for  gossips  to  chew  on. 

"Looks  like  you  been  hitting  the  road  at  a  right 
lively  gait." 

Mac  cut  in.  "Shoulder  of.  my  bronc's  chafed 
from  the  saddle.  Got  anything  that'll  heal  it?" 

"You  bet  I  have."  The  man  hurried  into  the 
stable  and  the  redheaded  cowpuncher  winked  across 
the  back  of  his  horse  at  Bill. 

The  keeper  of  the  stable  and  the  young  man  were 

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CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

still  busy  doctoring  the  sore  when  Curly  arrived 
with  Warren.  The  buyer  was  a  roundbodied  man 
with  black  gimlet  eyes  that  saw  much  he  never  told. 
The  bargain  he  drove  was  a  hard  one,  but  it  did 
not  take  long  to  come  to  terms  at  about  one-third 
the  value  of  the  string  he  was  purchasing.  Very 
likely  he  had  his  suspicions,  but  he  did  not  voice 
them.  No  doubt  they  cut  a  figure  in  the  price. 
He  let  it  be  understood  that  he  was  a  supply  agent 
for  the  rebels  in  Mexico.  Before  the  bills  were 
warm  in  the  pockets  of  the  sellers,  his  vaqueros 
were  mounted  and  were  moving  the  remuda  toward 
the  border. 

Curly  and  Mac  helped  them  get  started.  As  they 
rode  back  to  the  corral  a  young  man  came  out 
from  the  stable.  Flandrau  forgot  that  there  were 
reasons  why  he  wanted  just  now  to  be  a  stranger 
in  the  land  with  his  identity  not  advertised.  He  let 
out  a  shout. 

"Oh  you,  Slats  Davis !" 

"Hello,  Curly!    How  are  things  a-comin'?" 

"Fine.  When  did  you  blow  in  to  Saguache? 
Ain't  you  off  your  run  some?" 

They  had  ridden  the  range  together  and  had 
frolicked  around  on  a  dozen  boyish  larks.  Their 
ways  had  suited  each  other  and  they  had  been  a 
good  deal  more  than  casual  bunkies.  To  put  it 

13 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

mildly  the  meeting  was  likely  to  prove  embarrass 
ing. 

"Came  down  to  see  about  getting  some  cows 
for  the  old  man  from  the  Fiddleback  outfit,"  Davis 
explained.  "Didn't  expect  to  bump  into  friends 
'way  down  here.  You  riding  for  the  Bar  Double 
M?" 

There  was  a  momentary  silence.  Curly's  vigilant 
eyes  met  those  of  his  old  side  partner.  What  did 
Slats  know?  Had  he  been  in  the  stable  while  the 
remuda  was  still  in  the  corral?  Had  he  seen  them 
with  Bad  Bill  and  Blackwell?  Were  his  suspicions 
already  active? 

"No,  I'm  riding  for  the  Map  of  Texas,"  Flandrau 
answered  evenly. 

"Come  on,  Curly.  Let's  go  feed  our  faces,"  Mac 
called  from  the  stable. 

Flandrau  nodded.  "You  still  with  the  Hash- 
knife?"  he  asked  Davis. 

"Still  with  'em.  I've  been  raised  to  assistant 
foreman." 

"Bully  for  you.  That's  great.  All  right,  Mac. 
I'm  coming.  That's  sure  great,  old  hoss.  Well, 
see  you  later,  Slats." 

Flandrau  followed  Mac,  dissatisfied  with  himself 
for  leaving  his  friend  so  cavalierly.  In  the  old  days 
they  had  told  each  other  everything,  had  talked 
things  out  together  before  many  a  campfire.  He 

14 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

guessed  Slats  would  be  hurt,  but  he  had  to  think 
of  his  partners  in  this  enterprise. 

After  supper  they  took  a  room  at  the  hotel  and 
divided  the  money  Warren  had  paid  for  the  horses. 
None  of  them  had  slept  for  the  last  fifty  hours  and 
Mac  proposed  to  tumble  into  bed  at  once. 

Bad  Bill  shook  his  head.  "I  wouldn't,  Mac. 
Let's  hit  the  trail  and  do  our  sleeping1  in  the  hills. 
There's  too  many  telephone  lines  into  this  town  to 
suit  me." 

"Sho!  We  made  a  clean  getaway,  and  we're 
plumb  wore  out.  Our  play  isn't  to  hike  out  like 
we  were  scared  stiff  of  something.  What  we  want 
to  do  is  to  act  as  if  we  could  look  every  darned 
citizen  in  the  face.  Mac's  sure  right,"  Curly 
agreed. 

"You  kids  make  me  tired.  As  if  you  knew  any 
thing  about  it.  I'm  going  to  dust  muy  pronto/' 
Blackwell  snarled. 

"Sure.  Whenever  you  like.  You  go  and  we'll 
stay.  Then  everybody'll  be  satisfied.  We  got  to 
split  up  anyhow,"  Mac  said. 

Bad  Bill  looked  at  Blackwell  and  nodded.  'That's 
right.  We  don't  all  want  to  pull  a  blue  streak. 
That  would  be  a  dead  give  away.  Let  the  kids 
stay  if  they  want  to." 

"So  as  they  can  round  on  us  if  they're  nabbed," 
Blackwell  sneered. 

15 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

Cranston  called  him  down  roughly.  "That'll  be 
enough  along  that  line,  Lute.  I  don't  stand  for 
any  more  cracks  like  it." 

Blackwell,  not  three  months  out  from  the  peni 
tentiary,  faced  the  other  with  an  ugly  look  in  his 
eyes.  He  was  always  ready  to  quarrel,  but  he  did 
not  like  to  fight  unless  he  had  a  sure  thing.  He 
knew  Bad  Bill  was  an  ugly  customer  when  he  once 
got  started. 

"Didn't  mean  any  harm,"  the  ex-convict  growled. 
"But  I  don't  like  this  sticking  around  town.  I  tell 
you  straight  I  don't  like  it." 

"Then  I  wouldn't  stay  if  I  were  you,"  Curly 
suggested  promptly.  "Mac  and  I  have  got  a  differ 
ent  notion.  So  we'll  tie  to  Saguache  for  a  day  or 
two." 

As  soon  as  the  older  men  had  gone  the  others 
tumbled  into  bed  and  fell  asleep  at  once.  Daylight 
was  sifting  in  through  the  open  window  before  their 
eyes  opened.  Somebody  was  pounding  on  the  bed 
room  door,  which  probably  accounted  for  Flan- 
drau's  dream  that  a  sheriff  was  driving  nails  in  the 
lid  of  a  coffin  containing  one  Curly. 

Mac  was  already  out  of  bed  when  his  partner's 
feet  hit  the  floor. 

"What's  up,  Mac?" 

The  eyes  of  the  redheaded  puncher  gleamed  with 
excitement.  His  six-gun  was  in  his  hand.  By  the 

16 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

look  of  him  he  was  about  ready  to  whang  loose 
through  the  door. 

"Hold  your  horses,  you  chump,"  Curly  sang  out 
"It's  the  hotel  clerk.  I  left  a  call  with  him." 

But  it  was  not  the  hotel  clerk  after  all.  Through 
(he  door  came  a  quick,  jerky  voice. 

"That  you,  Curly?    For  God's  sake,  let  me  in." 

Before  he  had  got  the  words  out  the  door  was 
open.  Slats  came  in  and  shut  it  behind  him.  He 
looked  at  Mac,  the  forty-five  shaking  in  the  boy's 
hand,  and  he  looked  at  Flandrau. 

"They're  after  you,"  he  said,  breathing  fast  as 
if  he  had  been  running. 

"Who?"  fired  Curly  back  at  him. 

"The  Bar  Double  M  boys.  They  just  reached 
town." 

"Put  up  that  gun,  Mac,  and  move  into  your 
clothes  immediate,"  ordered  Curly.  Then  to  Davis: 
"Go  on.  Unload  the  rest.  What  do  they  know  ?" 

"They  inquired  for  you  and  your  friend  here 
down  at  the  Legal  Tender.  The  other  members  of 
your  party  they  could  only  guess  at." 

"Have  we  got  a  chance  to  make  our  getaway?" 
Mac  asked. 

Davis  nodded.  "Slide  out  through  the  kitchen, 
cut  into  the  alley,  and  across  lots  to  the  corral. 
We'll  lock  the  door  and  I'll  hold  them  here  long 
as  I  can." 

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CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

"Good  boy,  Slats.  If  there's  a  necktie  party 
you'll  get  the  first  bid,"  Curly  grinned. 

Slats  looked  at  him,  cold  and  steady.  Plainer 
than  words  he  was  telling  his  former  friend  that 
he  would  not  joke  with  a  horse  thief.  For  the  sake 
of  old  times  he  would  save  him  if  he  could,  but  he 
would  call  any  bluffs  about  the  whole  thing  being  a 
lark. 

Curly's  eyes  fell  away.  It  came  to  him  for  the 
first  time  that  he  was  no  longer  an  honest  man. 
Up  till  this  escapade  he  had  been  only  wild,  but  now 
he  had  crossed  the  line  that  separates  decent  folks 
from  outlaws.  He  had  been  excited  with  liquor 
when  he  joined  in  this  fool  enterprise,  but  that 
made  no  difference  now.  He  was  a  rustler,  a  horse 
thief.  If  he  lived  a  hundred  years  he  could  never 
get  away  from  the  disgrace  of  it. 

Not  another  word  was  said  while  they  hurried 
into  their  clothes.  But  as  Curly  passed  out  of  the 
door  he  called  back  huskily.  "Won't  forget  what 
you  done  for  us,  Slats." 

Again  their  eyes  met.  Davis  did  not  speak,  but 
the  chill  look  on  his  face  told  Flandrau  that  he 
had  lost  a  friend. 

The  two  young  men  ran  down  the  back  stairs, 
passed  through  the  kitchen  where  a  Chinese  cook 
was  getting  breakfast,  and  out  into  the  bright  sun 
light.  Before  they  cut  across  to  the  corral  their 

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CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

eyes  searched  for  enemies.  Nobody  was  in  sight 
except  the  negro  janitor  of  a  saloon  busy  putting 
empty  bottles  into  a  barrel. 

"Won't  do  to  be  in  any  hurry.  The  play  is  we're 
gentlemen  of  leisure,  just  out  for  an  amble  to  get 
the  mo'ning  air,"  Curly  cautioned. 

While  they  fed,  watered,  and  saddled  they 
swapped  gossip  with  the  wrangler.  It  would  not 
do  to  leave  the  boy  with  a  story  of  two  riders  in 
such  a  hurry  to  hit  the  trail  that  they  could  not  wait 
to  feed  their  bronchos.  So  they  stuck  it  out  while 
the  animals  ate,  though  they  were  about  as  con 
tented  as  a  two-pound  rainbow  trout  on  a  hook. 
One  of  them  was  at  the  door  all  the  time  to  make 
sure  the  way  was  still  clear.  At  that  they  shaved 
it  fine,  for  as  they  rode  away  two  men  were  com 
ing  down  the  street. 

"Kite  Bonfils,"  Curly  called  to  his  partner. 

No  explanation  was  needed.  Bonfils  was  the 
foreman  of  the  Bar  Double  M.  He  let  out  a  shout 
as  he  caught  sight  of  them  and  began  to  run  for 
ward.  Simultaneously  his  gun  seemed  to  jump  from 
jts  holster. 

Mac's  quirt  sang  and  his  pony  leaped  to  a  canter 
in  two  strides.  A  bullet  zipped  between  them.  An 
other  struck  the  dust  at  their  heels.  Faintly  there 
came  to  the  fugitives  the  sound  of  the  foreman'* 
impotent  curses.  They  had  escaped  for  the  time. 

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CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

Presently  they  passed  the  last  barb  wire  fence  and 
open  country  lay  before  them.  It  did  not  greatly 
matter  which  direction  they  followed,  so  long  as 
they  headed  into  the  desert. 

"What  we're  looking  for  is  a  country  filled  with 
absentees/'  Curly  explained  with  a  grin. 

Neither  of  them  had  ever  been  in  serious  trouble 
before  and  both  regretted  the  folly  that  had  turned 
their  drunken  spree  into  a  crime.  Once  or  twice 
they  came  to  the  edge  of  a  quarrel,  for  Mac  was 
ready  to  lay  the  blame  on  his  companion.  More 
over,  he  had  reasons  why  the  thing  he  had  done 
loomed  up  as  a  heinous  offense. 

His  reasons  came  out  before  the  camp  fire  on 
Dry  Sandy  that  evening.  They  were  stretched  in 
front  of  it  trying  to  make  a  smoke  serve  instead 
of  supper.  Mac  broke  a  gloomy  silence  to  grunt 
out  jerkily  a  situation  he  could  no  longer  keep  to 
himself. 

"Here's  where  I  get  my  walking  papers  I  reckon. 
No  rustlers  need  apply." 

Curly  shot  a  slant  glance  at  him.  "Meaning — • 
the  girl?" 

The  redheaded  puncher  nodded.  "She'll  throw 
me  down  sure.  Why  shouldn't  she?  I  tell  you 
I've  ruined  my  life.  You're  only  a  kid.  What  you 
know  about  it?" 

He  took  from  his  coat  pocket  a  photograph  and 
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CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

showed  it  to  his  friend.  The  sweet  clean  face  of 
a  wholesome  girl  smiled  at  Curly. 

"She's  ce'tainly  a  right  nice  young  lady.  I'll  bet 
she  stands  by  you  all  right.  Where's  she  live 
at?" 

"Waits  in  a  restaurant  at  Tombstone.  We  was 
going  to  be  married  soon  as  we  had  saved  five 
hundred  dollars."  Mac  swallowed  hard.  "And  I 
had  to  figure  out  this  short  cut  to  the  money  whilst 
I  was  drunk.  As  if  she'd  look  at  money  made 
that  way.  Why,  we'd  a-been  ready  by  Christmas 
if  I'd  only  waited." 

Curly  tried  to  cheer  him  up,  but  did  not  make 
much  of  a  job  at  it.  The  indisputable  facts  were 
that  Mac  was  an  outlaw  and  a  horse  thief.  Very 
likely  a  price  was  already  on  his  head. 

The  redheaded  boy  rolled  another  cigarette  de 
spondently.  "Sho!  I've  cooked  my  goose.  She'll 
not  look  at  me — even  if  they  don't  send  me  to  the 
pen."  In  a  moment  he  added  huskily,  staring  into 
the  deepening  darkness:  "And  she's  the  best  ever. 
Her  name's  Myra  Anderson." 

Abruptly  Mac  got  up  and  disappeared  in  the 
night,  muttering  something  about  looking  after  the 
horses.  His  partner  understood  well  enough  what 
was  the  matter.  The  redheaded  puncher  was  in  a 
stress  of  emotion,  and  like  the  boy  he  was  he  did 
not  want  Curly  to  know  it. 

21 


CROOKED    TRAILS   'AND    STRAIGHT 

Flandrau  pretended  to  be  asleep  when  Mac  re 
turned  half  an  hour  later. 

They  slept  under  a  live  oak  with  the  soundness 
of  healthy  youth.  For  the  time  they  forgot  their 
troubles.  Neither  of  them  knew  that  as  the  hours 
slipped  away  red  tragedy  was  galloping  closer  to 
them. 


CHAPTER  II 
CAMPING  WITH   OLD   MAN   TROUBLE 

The  sun  was  shining  in  his  face  when  Curly 
wakened.  He  sat  up  and  rubbed  his  eyes.  Mae 
was  nowhere  in  sight.  Probably  he  had  gone  to 
get  the  horses. 

A  sound  broke  the  stillness  of  the  desert.  It 
might  have  been  the  explosion  of  a  giant  fire 
cracker,  but  Flandrau  knew  it  was  nothing  so  harm 
less.  He  leaped  to  his  feet,  and  at  the  same  in 
stant  Mac  came  running  over  the  brow  of  the  hilL 
A  smoking  revolver  was  in  his  hand. 

From  behind  the  hill  a  gun  cracked — then  a 
second — and  a  third.  Mac  stumbled  over  his  feet 
and  pitched  forward  full  length  on  the  ground. 
His  friend  ran  toward  him,  forgetting  the  revolver 
that  lay  in  its  holster  under  the  live  oak.  Every 
moment  he  expected  to  see  Mac  jump  up,  but  the 
figure  stretched  beside  the  cholla  never  moved, 
Flandrau  felt  the  muscles  round  his  heart  tighten. 
He  had  seen  sudden  death  before,  but  never  had 
it  come  so  near  home. 

A  bullet  sent  up  a  spurt  of  dust  in  front  of  him, 
another  just  on  the  left.  Riders  were  making  a 

23 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

half  circle  around  the  knoll  and  closing  in  on  him. 
In  his  right  mind  Curly  would  have  been  properly 
frightened.  But  now  he  thought  only  of  Mac  lying 
there  so  still  in  the  sand.  Right  into  the  fire  zone 
he  ran,  knelt  beside  his  partner,  and  lifted  the  red- 
thatched  head.  A  little  hole  showed  back  of  the 
left  ear  and  another  at  the  right  temple.  A  bullet 
had  plowed  through  the  boy's  skull. 

Softly  Flandrau  put  the  head  back  in  the  sand 
and  rose  to  his  feet.  The  revolver  of  the  dead 
puncher  was  in  his  hand.  The  attackers  had  stopped 
shooting,  but  when  they  saw  him  rise  a  rifle  puffed 
once  more.  The  riders  were  closing  in  on  him  now. 
The  nearest  called  to  him  to  surrender.  Almost 
at  the  same  time  a  red  hot  pain  shot  through  the 
left  arm  of  the  trapped  rustler.  Someone  had 
nipped  him  from  the  rear. 

Curly  saw  red.  Surrender  nothing!  He  would 
go  down  fighting.  As  fast  as  he  could  blaze  he 
emptied  Mac's  gun.  When  the  smoke  cleared  the 
man  who  had  ordered  him  to  give  up  was  slipping 
from  his  horse.  Curly  was  surprised,  but  he  knew 
he  must  have  hit  him  by  chance. 

"We  got  him.  His  gun's  empty/'  someone 
shouted. 

Cautiously  they  closed  in,  keeping  him  covered 
all  the  time.  Of  a  sudden  the  plain  tilted  up  to 
meet  the  sky.  Flandrau  felt  himself  swaying  on 

24 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

his  feet.  Everything  went  black.  The  boy  had 
fainted. 

When  he  came  to  himself  strange  faces  were  all 
around  him,  and  there  were  no  bodies  to  go  with 
them.  They  seemed  to  float  about  in  an  odd  casual 
sort  of  way.  Then  things  cleared. 

"He's  coming  to  all  right,"  one  said. 

"Good.  I'd  hate  to  have  him  cheat  the  rope/' 
another  cried  with  an  oath. 

"That's  right.     How  is  Cullison?" 

This  was  said  to  another  who  had  just  come  up. 

"Hard  hit.  Looks  about  all  in.  Got  him  in 
the  side." 

The  rage  had  died  out  of  Curly.  In  a  flash  he 
saw  all  that  had  come  of  their  drunken  spree:  the 
rustling  of  the  Bar  Double  M  stock,  the  discovery, 
the  death  of  his  friend  and  maybe  of  Cullison,  the 
certain  punishment  that  would  follow.  He  was  a 
horse  thief  caught  almost  in  the  act.  Perhaps  he 
was  a  murderer  too.  And  the  whole  thing  had 
been  entirely  unpremeditated. 

Flandrau  made  a  movement  to  rise  and  they 
jerked  him  to  his  feet. 

"You've  played  hell,"  one  of  the  men  told  tht> 
boy. 

He  was  a  sawed-off  little  fellow  known  as  Dutch* 
Flandrau  had  seen  him  in  the  Map  of  Texas  coun 
try  a  year  or  two  before.  The  rest  were  strangers 

25 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

to  the  boy.  All  of  them  looked  at  him  out  of  hard 
hostile  eyes.  He  was  scarcely  a  human  being  to 
them;  rather  a  wolf  to  be  stamped  out  of  existence 
as  soon  as  it  was  convenient.  A  chill  ran  down 
Curly's  spine.  He  felt  as  if  someone  were  walking 
on  his  grave, 

At  a  shift  in  the  group  Flandrau's  eyes  fell  on 
his  friend  lying  in  the  sand  with  face  turned  whitely 
to  the  sky  he  never  would  see  again.  It  came  over 
him  strangely  enough  how  Mac  used  to  break  into 
a  little  chuckling  laugh  when  he  was  amused.  He 
had  quit  laughing  now  for  good  and  all.  A  lump 
came  into  the  boy's  throat  and  he  had  to  work  it 
down  before  he  spoke. 

"There's  a  picture  in  his  pocket,  and  some  letters 
I  reckon.  Send  them  to  Miss  Myra  Anderson, 
Tombstone,  care  of  one  of  the  restaurants.  I  don't 
know  which  one." 

"Send  nothin',"  sneered  Dutch,  and  coupled  it 
with  a  remark  no  decent  man  makes  of  a  woman 
on  a  guess. 

Because  of  poor  Mac  lying  there  with  the  little 
hole  in  his  temple  Curly  boiled  over.  With  a  jerk 
his  right  arm  was  free.  It  shot  out  like  a  pile- 
driver,  all  his  weight  behind  the  blow.  Dutch  went 
down  as  if  a  charging  bull  had  flung  him. 

Almost  simultaneously  Curly  hit  the  sand  hard. 
Before  he  could  stir  three  men  were  straddled  over 

26 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

his  anatomy.  One  of  them  ground  his  head  into 
the  dust. 

"You  would,  eh?  We'll  see  about  that.  Jake, 
bring  yore  rope." 

They  tied  the  hands  of  the  boy,  hauled  him  to  hi3 
feet,  and  set  him  astride  a  horse.  In  the  distance 
a  windmill  of  the  Circle  C  ranch  was  shining  in 
the  morning  sun.  Toward  the  group  of  buildings 
clustered  around  this  two  of  his  captors  started 
with  Flandrau.  A  third  was  already  galloping 
toward  the  ranch  house  to  telephone  for  a  doctor. 

As  they  rode  along  a  fenced  lane  which  led  to 
the  house  a  girl  came  flying  down  the  steps.  She 
swung  herself  to  the  saddle  just  vacated  by  the 
messenger  and  pulled  the  horse  round  for  a  start. 
At  sight  of  those  coming  toward  her  she  called 
out  quickly. 

"How  is  dad  ?"  The  quiver  of  fear  broke  in  her 
voice. 

"Don*  know  yet,  Miss  Kate/'  answered  one  of 
the  men.  "He's  right  peart  though.  Says  for  to 
tell  you  not  to  worry.  Don't  you,  either.  We've 
got  here  the  mangy  son  of  a  gun  that  did  it." 

Before  he  had  finished  she  was  off  like  an  arrow 
shot  from  a  bow,  but  not  until  her  eyes  had  fallen 
on  the  youth  sitting  bareheaded  and  bloody  between 
the  guns  of  his  guard.  Curly  noticed  that  she  had 
given  a  shudder,  as  one  might  at  sight  of  a  mangled 

27 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

mad  dog  which  had  just  bit  a  dear  friend.  Long 
after  the  pounding  of  her  pony's  hoofs  had  died 
away  the  prisoner  could  see  the  startled  eyes  of  fear 
and  horror  that  had  rested  on  him.  As  Curly  kicked 
his  foot  out  of  the  stirrup  to  dismount  a  light  spring 
wagon  rolled  past  him.  In  its  bed  were  a  mattress 
and  pillows.  The  driver  whipped  up  the  horse  and 
went  across  the  prairie  toward  Dry  Sandy  Creek. 
Evidently  he  was  going  to  bring  home  the  wounded 
man. 

His  guards  put  Flandrau  in  the  bunk  house  and 
one  of  them  sat  at  the  door  with  a  rifle  across  his 
knees.  The  cook,  the  stable  boy,  and  redheaded 
Bob  Cullison,  a  nephew  of  the  owner  of  the  ranch, 
peered  past  the  vaquero  at  the  captive  with  the  same 
awe  they  would  have  yielded  to  a  caged  panther. 

"Why,  he's  only  a  kid,  Buck,"  the  cook  whis 
pered. 

Buck  chewed  tobacco  impassively.  "Old  enough 
to  be  a  rustler  and  a  killer." 

Bob's  blue  eyes  were  wide  with  interest.  "I'll 
bet  he's  a  regular  Billy  the  Kid,"  murmured  the 
Jialf-grown  boy  to  the  other  lad. 

"Sure.  Course  he  is.  He's  got  bad  eyes  all 
right." 

"I'll  bet  he's  got  notches  on  his  gun.  Say,  if 
Uncle  Luck  dies—"  Bob  left  the  result  to  the 
imagination. 

28 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

The  excitement  at  the  Circle  C  increased.  Horses 
cantered  up.  Men  shouted  to  each  other  the  news. 
Occasionally  some  one  came  in  to  have  a  look  at 
the  "bad  man"  who  had  shot  Luck  Cullisoru  Young 
Flandrau  lay  on  a  cot  and  stared  at  the  ceiling, 
paying  no  more  attention  to  them  than  if  they  had 
been  blocks  of  wood.  It  took  no  shrewdness  to  see 
that  there  burned  in  them  a  still  cold  anger  toward 
him  that  might  easily  find  expression  in  lynch 
law. 

The  crtanch  of  wagon  wheels  over  disintegrated 
granite  drifted  to  the  bunk  house. 

"They're  bringing  the  boss  back/'  Buck  announced 
from  the  door  to  one  of  his  visitors. 

The  man  joined  him  and  looked  over  his  shoulder. 
"Miss  Kate  there  too?" 

"Yep.  Say,  if  the  old  man  don't  pull  through 
it  will  break  her  all  up." 

The  boy  on  the  bed  turned  his  face  to  the  wall. 
He  had  not  cried  for  ten  years,  but  now  he  would 
have  liked  the  relief  of  tears.  The  luck  had  broken 
bad  for  him,  but  it  would  be  the  worst  ever  if 
his  random  shot  were  to  make  Kate  Cullison  an 
orphan.  A  big  lump  rose  in  his  throat  and  would 
not  stay  down.  The  irony  of  it  was  that  he  was 
staged  for  the  part  of  a  gray  wolf  on  the  howl, 
while  he  felt  more  like  a  little  child  that  has  lost 
its  last  friend. 

29 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

After  a  time  there  came  again  the  crisp  roll  of 
wheels. 

"Doc  Brown,"  announced  Buck  casually  to  the 
other  men  in  the  bunk  house. 

There  was  more  than  one  anxious  heart  at  the 
Circle  C  waiting  for  the  verdict  of  the  bowlegged 
baldheaded  little  man  with  the  satchel,  but  not  one 
of  them — no,  not  even  Kate  Cullison  herself — was 
in  a  colder  fear  than  Curly  Flandrau.  He  was 
entitled  to  a  deep  interest,  for  if  Cullison  should 
die  he  knew  that  he  would  follow  him  within  a 
few  hours.  These  men  would  take  no  chances  with 
the  delays  of  the  law. 

The  men  at  the  bunk  house  had  offered  more 
than  once  to  look  at  Curly's  arm,  but  the  young  man 
declined  curtly.  The  bleeding  had  stopped,  but 
there  was  a  throb  in  it  as  if  someone  were  twisting 
a  redhot  knife  in  the  wound.  After  a  time  Doctor 
Brown  showed  up  in  the  doorway  of  the  men's 
quarters. 

"Another  patient  here,  they  tell  me,"  he  grunted 
in  the  brusque  way  that  failed  to  conceal  the  kindest 
of  hearts. 

Buck  nodded  toward  Flandrau. 

"Let's  have  a  look  at  your  arm,  young  fellow,'* 
the  doctor  ordered,  mopping  his  bald  head  with  a 
big  bandanna  handkerchief. 

"What  about  the  boss?"  asked  Jake  presently. 

30 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

^Mighty  sick  man,  looks  like.  Tell  you  more 
to-morrow  morning." 

"Do  you  mean  that  he — that  he  may  not  get 
well?"  Curly  pumped  out,  his  voice  not  quite 
steady. 

Doctor  Brown  looked  at  him  curiously.  Some 
how  this  boy  did  not  fit  the  specifications  of  the 
desperado  that  had  been  poured  into  his  ears. 

"Don't  know  yet.  Won't  make  any  promises." 
He  had  been  examining  the  wound  in  a  business 
like  way.  "Looks  like  the  bullet's  still  in  there. 
Have  to  give  you  an  anaesthetic  while  I  dig  it  out." 

"Nothin'  doing,"  retorted  Flandrau.  "You 
round  up  the  pill  in  there  and  I'll  stand  the  grief. 
When  this  lead  hypodermic  jabbed  into  my  arm 
it  sorter  gave  me  one  of  them  annie-what-d'ye-call- 
'em — and  one's  a-plenty  for  me." 

"It'll  hurt,"  the  little  man  explained. 

"Expect  I'll  find  that  out.    Go  to  it." 

Brown  had  not  been  for  thirty  years  carrying 
a  medicine  case  across  the  dusty  deserts  of  the 
frontier  without  learning  to  know  men.  He  made 
no  further  protest  but  set  to  work. 

Twenty  minutes  later  Curly  lay  back  on  the  bunk 
with  a  sudden  faintness-  He  was  very  white  about 
the  lips,  but  he  had  no*  once  flinched  from  the  in 
struments. 

31 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND   STRAIGHT 

The  doctor  washed  his  hands  and  his  tools,  pulled 
on  his  coat,  and  came  across  to  the  patient. 

"Feeling  like  a  fighting  cock,  are  you?  Ready  to 
tackle  another  posse?"  he  asked. 

"Not  quite."  The  prisoner  glanced  toward  his 
guards  and  his  voice  fell  to  a  husky  whisper.  "Say, 
Doc.  Pull  Cullison  through.  Don't  let  him  die." 

"Hmp!  Do  my  best,  young  fellow.  Seems  to 
me  you're  thinking  of  that  pretty  late." 

Brown  took  up  his  medicine  case  and  went  back 
to  the  house. 


CHAPTER  III 
AT  THE   END   OF   THE  ROAD 

Curly's  wooden  face  told  nothing  of  what  h* 
was  thinking.  The  first  article  of  the  creed  of  the 
frontier  is  to  be  game.  Good  or  bad,  the  last  test 
of  a  man  is  the  way  he  takes  his  medicine.  So  now 
young  Flandrau  ate  his  dinner  with  a  hearty  appe 
tite,  smoked  cigarettes  impassively,  and  occasionally 
chatted  with  his  guards  casually  and  as  a  matter 
of  course.  Deep  within  him  was  a  terrible  feeling 
of  sickness  at  the  disaster  that  had  overwhelmed 
him,  but  he  did  not  intend  to  play  the  quitter. 

Dutch  and  an  old  fellow  named  Sweeney  relieved 
the  other  watchers  about  noon.  The  squat  puncher 
came  up  and  looked  down  angrily  at  the  boy  lying 
on  the  bunk. 

"I'll  serve  notice  right  now  that  if  you  make  any 
breaks  I'll  fill  your  carcass  full  of  lead/'  he  growled. 

The  prisoner  knew  that  he  was  nursing  a  grudge 
for  the  blow  that  had  floored  him.  Not  to  be 
bluffed,  Curly  came  back  with  a  jeer.  "Much 
obliged,  my  sa wed-off  and  hammered-down  friend. 
But  what's  the  matter  with  your  face?  It  looks 
some  lopsided.  Did  a  mule  kick  you?" 

Sweeney  gave  his  companion  the  laugh.  "Better 
33, 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

let  him  alone,  Dutch.  If  he  lands  on  you  again 
like  he  did  before  your  beauty  ce'tainly  will  be 
spoiled  complete." 

The  little  puncher's  eyes  snapped  rage.  "You'll 
get  yours  pretty  soon,  Mr.  Curly  Flandrau.  The 
boys  are  fixin'  to  hang  yore  hide  up  to  dry." 

"Does  look  that  way,  doesn't  it?"  the  boy  agreed 
quietly. 

As  the  day  began  to  wear  out  it  looked  so  more 
than  ever.  Two  riders  from  the  Bar  Double  M 
reached  the  ranch  and  were  brought  in  to  identify 
him  as  the  horse  thief.  The  two  were  Maloney 
and  Kite  Bonfils,  neither  of  them  friends  of  the 
young  rustler.  The  foreman  in  particular  was  a 
wet  blanket  to  his  chances.  The  man's  black  eyes 
were  the  sort  that  never  soften  toward  the  follies 
and  mistakes  of  youth. 

"You've  got  the  right  man  all  right,"  he  said  to 
Buck  without  answering  Flandrau's  cool  nod  of 
recognition. 

"What  sort  of  a  reputation  has  he  got?"  Buck 
asked,  lowering  his  voice  a  little. 

Kite  did  not  take  the  trouble  to  lower  his.  "Bad. 
'Always  been  a  tough  character.  Friend  of  Bad  Bill 
Cranston  and  Soapy  Stone." 

Dutch  chipped  in.  "Shot  up  the  Silver  Dollar 
saloon  onct.  Pretty  near  beat  Pete  Schiff's  head 
off  another  time." 

34 


CROOKED    TRAILS   'AND    STRAIGHT 

Curly  laughed  rather  wildly.  "That's  right. 
Keep  a-coming,  boys.  Your  turn  now,  Maloney." 

"All  right.  Might  as  well  have  it  all,"  Buck 
agreed. 

"I  don't  know  anything  against  the  kid,  barring 
he's  been  a  little  wild,"  Maloney  testified.  "And 
I  reckon  we  ain't  any  of  us  prize  Sunday  school 
winners  for  that  matter." 

"Are  we  all  friends  of  Soapy  Stone  and  Bad 
Bill?  Do  we  all  rustle  stock  and  shoot  up  good 
citizens?"  Dutch  shrilled. 

Maloney's  blue  Irish  eyes  rested  on  the  little 
puncher  for  a  moment,  then  passed  on  as  if  he  had 
been  weighed  and  found  wanting. 

"I've  noticed,"  he  said  to  nobody  in  particular, 
"that  them  hollering  loudest  for  justice  are  most 
generally  the  ones  that  would  hate  to  have  it  done 
to  them." 

Dutch  bristled  like  a  turkey  rooster.  "What  do 
you  mean  by  that?" 

The  Irishman  smiled  derisively.  "I  reckon  you 
can  guess  if  you  try  real  hard." 

Dutch  fumed,  but  did  no  guessing  out  loud.  His 
'reputation  was  a  whitewashed  one.  Queer  stories 
had  been  whispered  about  him.  He  had  been  a 
nester,  and  it  was  claimed  that  calves  certainly  not 
his  had  been  found  carrying  his  brand.  The  man 
had  been  full  of  explanations,  but  there  came  a 

35 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND   STRAIGHT 

time  when  explanations  no  longer  were  accepted. 
He  was  invited  to  become  an  absentee  at  his  earliest 
convenience.  This  was  when  he  had  been  living 
across  the  mountains.  Curly  had  been  one  of  those 
who  had  given  the  invitation.  He  had  taken  the 
hint  and  left  without  delay.  Now  he  was  paying 
the  debt  he  owed  young  Flandrau. 

Though  the  role  Curly  had  been  given  was  that 
of  the  hardened  desperado  he  could  not  quite  live 
up  to  the  part.  As  Buck  turned  to  leave  the  bunk 
house  the  boy  touched  him  on  the  arm. 

"How  about  Cullison?"  he  asked,  very  low. 

But  Buck  would  not  have  it  that  way.  "What 
about  him?"  he  demanded  out  loud,  his  voice  grat 
ing  like  steel  when  it  grinds. 

"Is  he — how  is  he  doing?" 

"What's  eatin'  you?  Ain't  he  dying  fast  enough 
to  suit  you?" 

Flandrau  shrank  from  the  cruel  words,  as  a 
schoolboy  does  from  his  teacher  when  he  jumps  at 
him  with  a  cane.  He  understood  how  the  men  were 
feeling,  but  to  have  it  put  into  words  like  this 
cut  him  deeply. 

It  was  then  that  Maloney  made  a  friend  of  the] 
young  man  for  life.  He  let  a  hand  drop  carelessly 
on  Curly's  shoulder  and  looked  at  him  with  a 
friendly  smile  in  his  eyes,  just  as  if  he  knew  that 

36 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

this  was  no  wolf  but  a  poor  lost  dog  up  against  it 
hard. 

"Doc  thinks  hell  make  it  all  right." 

But  there  were  times  when  Curly  wondered 
whether  it  would  make  any  difference  to  him 
whether  Cullison  got  well  or  not.  Something  im 
mediate  was  in  the  air.  Public  opinion  was  sifting 
down  to  a  decision.  There  were  wise  nods,  and 
whisperings,  and  men  riding  up  and  going  off  again 
in  a  hurry.  There  had  been  a  good  deal  of  law 
lessness  of  late,  for  which  Soapy  Stone's  band  of 
followers  was  held  responsible.  Just  as  plainly  as 
if  he  had  heard  the  arguments  of  Dutch  and  Kite 
Bonfils  he  knew  that  they  were  urging  the  others  to 
make  an  example  of  him.  Most  of  these  men  were 
well  up  to  the  average  for  the  milk  of  human  kind 
ness.  They  were  the  squarest  citizens  in  Arizona. 
But  Flandrau  knew  they  would  snuff  out  his  life 
just  the  same  if  they  decided  it  was  best.  After 
ward  they  might  regret  it,  but  that  would  not  help 
him. 

Darkness  came,  and  the  lamps  were  lit.  Again 
Curly  ate  and  smoked  and  chatted  a  little  with  his 
captors.  But  as  he  sat  there  hour  after  hour,  feel 
ing  death  creep  closer  every  minute,  cold  shivers  ran 
up  and  down  his  spine. 

They  began  to  question  him,  at  first  casually  and 

37 


CROOKED    TRAILS    'AND    STRAIGHT 

carelessly,  so  it  seemed  to  Curly.  But  presently  he 
discerned  a  drift  in  the  talk.  They  were  trying  to 
find  out  who  had  been  his  partners  in  the  rustling. 

"And  I  reckon  Soapy  and  Bad  Bill  left  you  lads 
at  Saguache  to  hold  the  sack/'  Buck  suggested 
sympathetically. 

Curly  grew  wary.  He  did  not  intend  to  betray 
his  accomplices.  "Wrong  guess.  Soapy  and  Bad 
Bill  weren't  in  this  deal,"  he  answered  easily. 

"We  know  there  were  two  others  in  it  with  you. 
I  guess  they  were  Soapy  and  Bad  Bill  all  right." 

"There's  no  law  against  guessing." 

The  foreman  of  the  Bar  Double  M  interrupted 
impatiently,  tired  of  trying  to  pump  out  the  infor 
mation  by  finesse.  "You've  got  to  speak,  Flandrau. 
You've  got  to  tell  us  who  was  engineering  this 
theft.  Understand?" 

The  young  rustler  looked  at  the  grim  frowning 
face  and  his  heart  sank.  "Got  to  tell  you,  have  I  ?" 

"That's  what?" 

"Out  with  it,"  ordered  Buck. 

"Oh,  I  expect  I'll  keep  that  under  my  hat,"  Curly 
told  them  lightly. 

They  were  crowded  about  him  in  a  half  circle, 
nearly  a  score  of  hard  leather-faced  plainsmen. 
Some  of  them  were  riders  of  the  Circle  C  outfit. 
Others  had  ridden  over  from  neighboring  ranches, 

38 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

All  of  them  plainly  meant  business.  They  meant 
to  stamp  out  rustling,  and  their  determination  had 
been  given  an  edge  by  the  wounding  of  Luck  Culli- 
son,  the  most  popular  man  in  the  county. 

*  Think  again,  Curly,"  advised  Sweeney  quietly. 
"The  boys  ain't  trifling  about  this  thing.  They 
mean  to  find  out  who  was  in  the  rustling  of  the 
Bar  Double  M  stock." 

"Not  through  me,  they  won't." 

"Through  you.     And  right  now." 

A  dozen  times  during  the  evening  Curly  had 
crushed  down  the  desire  to  beg  for  mercy,  to  cry 
out  desperately  for  them  to  let  him  off.  He  had 
kept  telling  himself  not  to  show  yellow,  that  it 
would  not  last  long.  Now  the  fear  of  breaking 
down  sloughed  from  his  soul.  He  rose  from  the 
bed  and  looked  round  at  the  brown  faces  circled 
about  him  in  the  shine  of  the  lamps. 

"I'll  not  tell  you  a  thing — not  a  thing." 

He  stood  there  chalk-faced,  his  lips  so  dry  that 
he  had  to  keep  moistening  them  with  the  tip  of 
his  tongue.  Two  thoughts  hammered  in  his  head. 
One  was  that  he  had  come  to  the  end  of  his  trail, 
the  other  that  he  would  game  it  out  without  weak 
ening. 

Dutch  had  a  new  rope  in  his  hand  with  a  loop  at 
one  end.  He  tossed  it  over  the  boy's  head  and 

39 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

drew  it  taut.  Two  or  three  of  the  faces  in  the 
circle  were  almost  as  bloodless  as  that  of  the  pris 
oner,  but  they  were  set  to  see  the  thing  out. 

"Will  you  tell  now?"  Bonfils  asked. 

Curly  met  him  eye  to  eye.     "No." 

"Come  along  then." 

One  of  the  men  caught  his  arm  at  the  place 
where  he  had  been  wounded.  The  rustler  flinched. 

"Careful,  Buck.  Don't  you  see  you're  hurting 
his  bad  arm?"  Sweeney  said  sharply. 

"Sure.     Take  him  right  under  the  shoulder." 

"There's  no  call  to  be  rough  with  him." 

"I  didn't  aim  to  hurt  him,"  Buck  defended  him 
self. 

His  grip  was  loose  and  easy  now.  Like  the 
others  he  was  making  it  up  to  his  conscience  for 
what  he  meant  to  do  by  doing  it  in  the  kindest  way 
possible. 

Curly's  senses  had  never  been  more  alert.  He 
noticed  that  Buck  had  on  a  red  necktie  that  had  got 
loose  from  his  shirt  and  climbed  up  his  neck.  It 
had  black  polka  dots  and  was  badly  frayed.  Sweeney 
was  chewing  tobacco.  He  would  have  that  chew 
in  his  mouth  after  they  had  finished  what  they  were 
going  to  do. 

"Ain't  he  the  gamest  ever?"  someone  whispered. 

The  rustler  heard  the  words  and  they  braced  him 
40 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND   STRAIGHT 

as  a  drink  of  whiskey  does  a  man  who  has  been  on 
a  bad  spree.  His  heart  was  chill  with  fear,  but  he 
had  strung  his  will  not  to  let  him  give  way. 

"Better  do  it  at  the  cotttonwoods  down  by  the 
creek,"  Buck  told  Bonfils  in  a  low  voice. 

The  foreman  of  the  Bar  Double  M  moved  his 
head  in  assent.  "All  right.  Let's  get  it  over  quick 


as  we  can." 


A  sound  of  flying  feet  came  from  outside.  Some 
one  smothered  an  oath  of  surprise.  Kate  Cullison 
stood  in  the  doorway,  all  out  of  breath  and  panting. 

She  took  the  situation  in  before  she  spoke,  guessed 
exactly  what  they  intended  to  do.  Yet  she  flung 
her  imperious  question  at  them. 

"What  is  it?" 

They  had  not  a  word  to  say  for  themselves.  In 
that  room  were  some  of  the  most  callous  hearts  in 
the  territory.  Not  one  man  in  a  million  could  have 
phased  them,  but  this  slender  girl  dumfounded  them. 
Her  gaze  settled  on  Buck.  His  wandered  for  help 
to  Sweeney,  to  Jake,  to  Kite  Bonfils. 

"Now  look-a-here,  Miss  Kate,"  Sweeney  began 
to  explain. 

But  she  swept  his  remonstrance  aside. 

"No— No— No!"  Her  voice  gathered  strength 
with  each  repetition  of  the  word.  "I  won't  have  it. 
What  are  you  thinking  about?" 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

To  the  boy  with  the  rope  around  his  neck  she 
was  an  angel  from  heaven  as  she  stood  there  so  slim 
and  straight,  her  dark  eyes  shining  like  stars.  Some 
of  these  men  were  old  enough  to  be  her  father. 
Any  of  them  could  have  crushed  her  with  one  hand. 
But  if  a  thunderbolt  had  crashed  in  their  midst  it 
•could  not  have  disturbed  the  vigilantes  more. 

"He's  a  rustler,  Miss  Kate;  belongs  to  Soapy 
Stone's  outfit,"  Sweeney  answered  the  girl. 

"Can  you  prove  it?" 

"We  got  him  double  cinched." 

"Then  let  the  law  put  him  in  prison." 

"He  shot  yore  paw,"  Buck  reminded  her. 

"Is  that  why  you're  doing  it?" 

"Yes'm,"  and  "That's  why,"  they  nodded. 

Like  a  flash  she  took  advantage  of  their  admis 
sion.  "Then  I've  got  more  against  him  than  you 
have,  and  I  say  turn  him  over  to  the  law." 

"He'd  get  a  good  lawyer  and  wiggle  out,"  Dutch 
objected. 

She  whirled  on  the  little  puncher.  "You  know 
how  that  is,  do  you?" 

Somebody  laughed.  It  was  known  that  Dutch 
had  once  been  tried  for  stealing  a  sheep  and  had 
been  acquitted. 

Kite  pushed  forward,  rough  and  overbearing. 
"Now  see  here.  We  know  what  we're  doing  and 
we  know  why  we're  doing  it.  This  ain't  any  busi- 

42 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

ness  for  a  girl  to  mix  in.  You  go  back  to  the  house 
and  nurse  your  father  that  this  man  shot." 

"So  it  isn't  the  kind  of  business  for  a  girl/'  she 
answered  scornfully.  "It's  work  for  a  man,  isn't 
it?  No,  not  for  one.  For  nine — eleven — thirteen 
• — seventeen  big  brave  strong  men  to  hang  one  poor 
wounded  boy." 

Again  that  amused  laugh  rippled  out.  It  came 
from  Maloney.  He  was  leaning  against  the  door 
jamb  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  Nobody  had 
noticed  him  before.  He  had  come  in  after  the  girl.. 
When  Curly  came  to  think  it  over  later,  if  he  had 
been  given  three  guesses  as  to  who  had  told  Kate 
Cullison  what  was  on  the  program  he  would  have 
guessed  Maloney  each  time. 

"Now  that  you've  relieved  your  mind  proper, 
Miss  Cullison,  I  expect  any  of  the  boys  will  be  glad 
to  escort  you  back  to  the  house,"  Kite  suggested 
with  an  acid  smile. 

"What  have  you  got  to  do  with  this  ?"  she  flamed, 
"Our  boys  took  him.  They  brought  him  here  as 
their  prisoner.  Do  you  think  we'll  let  you  come 
over  into  this  county  and  dictate  everything  we 
do?" 

"I've  got  a  notion  tucked  away  that  you're  try 
ing  to  do  the  dictating  your  own  self,"  the  Bar 
Double  M  man  contradicted. 

"I'm  not.  But  I  won't  stand  by  while  you  get 
43 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

these  boys  to'  do  murder.  If  they  haven't  sense 
enough  to  keep  them  from  it  I've  got  to  stop  it 
myself." 

Kite  laughed  sarcastically.  "You  hear  your  boss, 
boys." 

"You've  had  yore  say  now,  Miss  Kate.  I  reckon 
you  better  say  good-night,"  advised  Buck. 

She  handed  Buck  and  his  friends  her  compliments 
in  a  swift  flow  of  feminine  ferocity. 

Maloney  pushed  into  the  circle.  "She's  dead 
right,  boys.  There's  nothing  to  this  lynching  game. 
He's  only  a  kid." 

"He's  not  such  a  kid  but  what  he  can  do  murder," 
Dutch  spat  out. 

Kate  read  him  the  riot  act  so  sharply  that  the 
little  puncher  had  not  another  word  to  say.  The 
tide  of  opinion  was  shifting.  Those  who  had  been 
worked  up  to  the  lynching  by  the  arguments  of 
Bonfils  began  to  resent  his  activity.  Flandrau  was 
their  prisoner,  wasn't  he?  No  use  going  off  half 
cocked.  Some  of  them  were  discovering  that  they 
were  not  half  so  anxious  to  hang  him  as  they  had 
gupposed. 

The  girl  turned  to  her  friends  and  neighbors.  "I 
oughtn't  to  have  talked  to  you  that  way,  but  you 
know  how  worried  I  am  about  Dad,"  she  apologized 
with  a  catch  in  her  breath.  "I'm  sure  you  didn't 
think  or  you  would  never  have  done  anything  to 

44 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

trouble  me  more  just  now.  You  know  I  didn't  half 
mean  it."  She  looked  from  one  to  another,  her 
eyes  shiny  with  tears.  "I  know  that  no  braver  or 
kinder  men  live  than  you.  Why,  you're  my  folks. 
I've  been  brought  up  among  you.  And  so  you've 
got  to  forgive  me." 

Some  said  "Sure,"  others  told  her  to  forget  it, 
and  one  grass  widower  drew  a  laugh  by  saying  that 
her  little  spiel  reminded  him  of  happier  days. 

For  the  first  time  a  smile  lit  her  face.  The  boy 
for  whose  life  she  was  pleading  thought  it  was  like 
sunshine  after  a  storm. 

"I'm  so  glad  you've  changed  your  minds.  I  knew 
you  would  when  you  thought  it  over,"  she  told  them 
chattily  and  confidentially. 

She  was  taking  their  assent  for  granted.  Now 
she  \vaited  and  gave  them  a  chance  to  chorus  their 
agreement.  None  of  them  spoke  except  Maloney. 
Most  of  them  were  with  her  in  sympathy  but  none 
wanted  to  be  first  in  giving  way.  Each  wanted 
to  save  his  face,  so  that  the  others  could  not  later 
blame  him  for  quitting  first. 

She  looked  around  from  one  to  another,  still 
cheerful  and  sure  of  her  ground  apparently.  Two 
steps  brought  her  directly  in  front  of  one.  She 
caught  him  by  the  lapels  of  his  coat  and  looked 
straight  into  his  eyes.  "You  have  changed  your 
mind,  haven't  you,  Jake  ?" 

45 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND   STRAIGHT 

The  big  Missourian  twisted  his  hat  in  embarrass 
ment.  "I  reckon  I  have,  Miss  Kate.  Whatever  the 
other  boys  say,"  he  got  out  at  last. 

"Haven't  you  a  mind  of  your  own,  Jake?" 
"Sure.     Whatever's  right  suits  me." 
"Well,  you  know  what  is  right,  don't  you?" 
"I  expect." 

"Then  you  won't  hurt  this  man,  our  prisoner  ?" 
"I  haven't  a  thing  against  him  if  you  haven't." 
"Then  you  won't  hurt  him?    You  won't  stand  by 
and  let  the  other  boys  do  it?" 
"Now,  Miss  Kate—" 

She  burst  into  sudden  tears.  "I  thought  you 
were  my  friend,  but  now  I'm  in  trouble  you — you 
think  only  of  making  it  worse.  I'm  worried  to 
death  about  Dad — and  you — you  make  me  stay  here 
—away  from  him — and  torment  me." 

Jake  gave  in  immediately  and  the  rest  followed 
like  a  flock  of  sheep.  Two  or  three  of  the  promises 
came  hard,  but  she  did  not  stop  till  each  one  in 
dividually  had  pledged  himself.  And  all  the  time 
she  was  cajoling  them,  explaining  how  good  it  was 
of  them  to  think  of  avenging  her  father,  how  in 
one  way  she  did  not  blame  them  at  all,  though  of 
course  they  had  seen  it  would  not  do  as  soon  as 
they  gave  the  matter  a  second  thought.  Dad  would 
be  so  pleased  at  them  when  he  heard  about  it,  and 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

she  wanted  them  to  know  how  much  she  liked  and 
admired  them.  It  was  quite  a  love  feast. 

The  young  man  she  had  saved  could  not  keep  his 
eyes  from  her.  He  would  have  liked  to  kneel  down 
and  kiss  the  edge  of  her  dress  and  put  his  curly 
head  in  the  dust  before  her.  The  ice  in  his  heart 
had  melted  in  the  warmth  of  a  great  emotion.  She 
was  standing  close  to  him  talking  to  Buck  when 
he  spoke  in  a  low  voice. 

"I  reckon  I  can't  tell  you — how  much  I'm  obliged 
to  you,  Miss." 

She  drew  back  quickly  as  if  he  had  been  a  snake 
about  to  strike,  her  hand  instinctively  gathering 
her  skirts  so  that  they  would  not  brush  against  him, 

"I  don't  want  your  thanks,"  she  told  him,  and 
her  voice  was  like  the  drench  of  an  icy  wave. 

But  when  she  saw  the  hurt  in  his  eyes  she  hesi 
tated.  Perhaps  she  guessed  that  he  was  human 
after  all,  for  an  impulse  carried  her  forward  to 
take  the  rope  from  his  neck.  While  his  heart  beat 
twice  her  soft  fingers  touched  his  throat  and  grazed 
his  cheek.  Then  she  turned  and  was  gone  from 
the  room. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  the  bunk  house  quieted. 
Curly,  faint  with  weariness,  lay  down  and  tried  to 
sleep.  His  arm  was  paining  a  good  deal  and  he 
felt  feverish.  The  men  of  the  Circle  C  and  their 

47 


CROOKED    TRAILS   rAND    STRAIGHT 

guests  sat  down  and  argued  the  whole  thing  over. 
But  after  a  time  the  doctor  came  in  and  had  the 
patient  carried  to  the  house.  He  was  put  in  a  good 
clean  bed  and  his  arm  dressed  again. 

The  doctor  brought  him  good  news.  "Cullison 
is  doing  fine.  He  has  dropped  into  a  good  sleep. 
He'd  ought  to  make  it  all  right.'' 

Curly  thought  about  the  girl  who  had  fought  for 
his  life. 

"You'll  not  let  him  die,  Doc,"  he  begged. 

"He's  too  tough  for  that,  Luck  Cullison  is." 

Presently  Doctor  Brown  gave  him  a  sleeping 
powder  and  left  him.  Soon  after  that  Curly  fell 
asleep  and  dreamed  about  a  slim  dark  girl  with  fine 
longlashed  eyes  that  could  be  both  tender  and  fero 
cious. 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE   CULLISONS 

Curly  was  awakened  by  the  sound  of  the  cook 
beating  the  call  to  breakfast  on  a  triangle.  Buck 
was  standing  beside  the  bed. 

"How're  they  coming  this  glad  mo'ning,  son?" 
he  inquired  with  a  grin. 

"Fine  and  dandy,"  grinned  back  Flandrau. 

So  he  was,  comparatively  speaking.  The  pain 
in  his  arm  had  subsided.  He  had  had  a  good  sleep. 
And  he  was  lying  comfortably  in  a  clean  bed  in 
stead  of  hanging  by  the  neck  from  the  limb  of 
one  of  the  big  cottonwoods  on  the  edge  of  the 
creek. 

A  memory  smote  him  and  instantly  he  was  grave 
again. 

"How  is  Cullison?" 

"Good  as  the  wheat,  doc  says.  Mighty  lucky  for 
Mr.  C.  Flandrau  that  he  is.  Say,  I'm  to  be  yore 
valley  and  help  you  into  them  clothes.  Git  a  wiggle 
on  you." 

Buck  escorted  his  prisoner  over  to  the  ranch  mess 
house.  The  others  had  finished  breakfast  but 
Maloney  was  still  eating.  His  mouth  was  full  of 

49 


CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT 

hot  cakes,  but  he  nodded  across  at  Curly  in  a  casual 
friendly  way. 

"How's  the  villain  in  the  play  this  mo'ning?"  he 
inquired. 

Twenty-one  usually  looks  on  the  cheerful  side 
of  life.  Curly  had  forgotten  for  the  moment  about 
what  had  happened  to  his  friend  Mac.  He  did  not 
remember  that  he  was  in  the  shadow  of  a  peni 
tentiary  sentence.  The  sun  was  shining  out  of  a 
deep  blue  sky.  The  vigor  of  youth  flowed  through 
his  veins.  He  was  hungry  and  a  good  breakfast  was 
before  him.  For  the  present  these  were  enough. 

"Me,  I'm  feeling  a  heap  better  than  I  was  last 
night,"  he  admitted. 

"Came  pretty  near  losing  him  out  of  the  cast, 
didn't  we?" 

"Might  a-turned  out  that  way  if  the  stage  man 
ager  had  not  remembered  the  right  cue  in  time." 

Curly  was  looking  straight  into  the  eyes  twink 
ling  across  the  table  at  him.  Maloney  knew  that 
the  young  fellow  was  thanking  him  for  having 
saved  his  life.  He  nodded  lightly,  but  his  words 
still  seemed  to  make  a  jest  of  the  situation. 

"Enter  the  heroine.  Spotlight.  Sa-a-ved,"  he 
drawled. 

The  heart  of  the  prisoner  went  out  to  this  man 
who  was  reaching  a  hand  to  him  in  his  trouble. 
He  had  always  known  that  Maloney  was  true  and 

50 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

steady  as  a  snubbing  post,  but  he  had  not  looked 
for  any  kindness  from  him. 

"Kite  just  got  a  telephone  message  from 
Saguache,"  the  Bar  Double  M  man  went  on  easily. 
"Your  friends  that  bought  the  rustled  stock  didn't 
get  away  with  the  goods.  Seems  they  stumbled 
into  a  bunch  of  rurales  unexpected  and  had  to  pull 
their  freight  sudden.  The  boys  from  the  ranch  hap 
pened  along  about  then,  claimed  ownership  and  got 
possession." 

"If  the  men  bought  the  stock  why  didn't  they 
stop  and  explain?"  asked  Buck. 

"That  game  of  buying  stolen  cattle  is  worn 
threadbare.  The  rurales  and  the  rangers  have  had 
their  eye  on  those  border  flitters  for  quite  some 
time.  So  they  figured  it  was  safer  to  dust." 

"Make  their  getaway?"  Curly  inquired  as  in 
differently  as  he  could.  But  in  spite  of  himself  a 
note  of  eagerness  crept  into  his  voice.  For  if  the 
men  had  escaped  that  would  be  two  less  witnesses 
against  him. 

"Yep." 

"Too  bad.  If  they  hadn't  I  could  have  proved  by 
them  I  was  not  one  of  the  men  who  sold  them  the 
stock,"  Flandrau  replied. 

"Like  hell  you  could,"  Buck  snorted,  then  grinned 
at  his  prisoner  in  a  shamefaced  way:  "You're  a 
good  one,  son." 

51 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND   STRAIGHT 

"Luck  has  been  breaking  bad  for  me,  but  when 
things  are  explained " 

"It  sure  will  take  a  lot  of  explaining  to  keep 
you  out  of  the  pen.  You'll  have  to  be  slicker  than 
Dutch  was." 

Jake  stuck  his  head  in  at  the  door.  "Buck,  you're 
needed  to  help  with  them  two-year-olds.  The  old 
man  wants  to  have  a  talk  with  the  rustler.  Doc 
says  he  may.  Maloney,  will  you  take  him  up  to 
the  house?  I'll  arrange  to  have  you  relieved  soon 
as  I  can." 

Maloney  had  once  ridden  for  the  Circle  C  and 
was  friendly  with  all  the  men  on  the  place.  He 
nodded.  "Sure." 

A  Mexican  woman  let  them  into  the  chamber 
where  the  wounded  man  lay.  It  was  a  large  sunny 
southeast  room  with  French  windows  opening  upon 
a  long  porch.  Kate  was  bending  over  the  bed  re 
arranging  the  pillows,  but  she  looked  up  quickly 
when  the  two  men  entered.  Her  eyes  were  still 
gentle  with  the  love  that  had  been  shining  down 
from  them  upon  her  father. 

Cullison  spoke.  "Sit  down,  Dick."  And  to  his 
prisoner:  "You  too." 

Flandrau  saw  close  at  hand  for  the  first  time  the 
man  who  had  been  Arizona's  most  famous  fighting 
sheriff.  Luck  Cullison  was  well-built  and  of  medium 
height,  of  a  dark  complexion,  clean  shaven,  wiry 

52 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

and  muscular.  Already  past  fifty,  he  looked  not  a 
day  more  than  forty.  One  glance  was  enough  to 
tell  Curly  the  kind  of  man  this  was.  The  power 
of  him  found  expression  in  the  gray  steel-chilled 
eyes  that  bored  into  the  young  outlaw.  A  child 
could  have  told  he  was  not  one  to  trifle  with. 

"You  have  begun  early,  young  fellow,"  he  said 
quietly. 

"Begun  what?'*  Curly  asked,  having  nothing  bet 
ter  to  say. 

"You  know  what.  But  never  mind  that.  I  don't 
ask  you  to  convict  yourself.  I  sent  for  you  to  tell 
you  I  don't  blame  you  fof  this."  He  touched  the 
wound  in  his  side. 

"Different  with  your  boys,  sir." 

"So  the  boys  are  a  little  excited,  are  they?" 

"They  were  last  night  anyhow,"  Curly  answered, 
with  a  glimmer  of  a  smile. 

Cullison  looked  quickly  at  Maloney  and  then  at 
his  daughter. 

"I'll  listen  to  what  you've  been  hiding  from  me," 
he  told  them. 

"Oh,  the  boys  had  notions.  Miss  Kate  argued 
with  them  and  they  saw  things  different,"  the  Bar 
Double  M  rider  explained. 

But  Cullison  would  not  let  it  go  at  that.  He 
made  them  tell  him  the  whole  story.  When  Curly 
and  Maloney  had  finished  he  buried  his  daughter's 

53 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

little  hand  in  his  big  brown  fist.  His  eyes  were 
dancing  with  pride,  but  he  gave  her  not  a  word  of 
spoken  praise. 

Kate,  somewhat  embarrassed,  changed  the  sub 
ject  briskly.  "Now  you're  talking  too  much,  Dad. 
Doctor  Brown  said  you  might  see  him  for  just  a 
few  minutes.  But  you're  not  to  tire  yourself,  so 
I'll  do  the  talking  for  you." 

He  took  his  orders  with  the  smiling  submission 
of  the  man  who  knows  his  mistress. 

Kate  spoke  to  Curly.  "Father  wants  me  to  tell 
you  that  we  don't  blame  you  for  shooting  at  him. 
We  understand  just  how  it  was.  Your  friend  got 
excited  and  shot  as  soon  as  he  saw  he  was  sur 
rounded.  We  are  both  very  sorry  he  was  killed. 
Father  could  not  stop  the  boys  in  time.  Perhaps 
you  remember  that  he  tried  to  get  you  to  sur 
render." 

The  rustler  nodded  "Yes,  I  heard  him  holler  to 
me  to  put  my  gun  down,  but  the  others  blazed  away 
at  me." 

"And  so  you  naturally  defended  yourself.  That's 
how  we  understand  it.  Father  wants  it  made  clear 
that  he  feels  you  could  have  done  nothing  else." 

"Much  obliged  I've  been  sorry  ever  since  I  hit 
him,  and  not  only  on  my  own  account." 

"Then  none  of  us  need  to  hold  hard  feelings." 
The  girl  looked  at  her  father,  who  answered  her 

54 


CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT 

appeal  with  a  grim  nod,  and  then  she  turned  again 
to  the  young  rustler  a  little  timidly.  "I  wonder 
if  you  would  mind  if  I  asked  you  a  question." 

"You've  earned  the  right  to  ask  as  many  as  you 
like." 

"It's  about We  have  been  told  you  know 

the  man  they  call  Soapy  Stone.  Is  that  true?" 

Flandrau's  eyes  took  on  a  stony  look.  It  was 
as  if  something  had  sponged  all  the  boyishness  from 
his  face.  Still  trying  to  get  him  to  give  away  his 
partners  in  the  rustling,  were  they  ?  Well,  he  would 
show  them  he  could  take  his  medicine  without 
squealing. 

"Maybe  it  is  and  maybe  it  isn't." 

"Oh,  but  you  don't  see  what  we  mean.  It  isn't 
that  we  want  to  hurt  you."  She  spoke  in  a  quick 
eager  voice  of  protest. 

"No,  you  just  want  me  to  squeal  on  my  friends 
to  save  my  own  hide.  Nothing  doing,  Miss  Culli- 
son." 

"No.  You're  wrong.  Why  are  you  so  suspi 
cious?" 

Curly  laughed  bitterly.  "Your  boys  were  asking 
that  question  about  Soapy  last  night.  They  had 
a  rope  round  my  neck  at  the  time.  Nothing  un 
friendly  in  the  matter,  of  course.  Just  a  casual 
interest  in  my  doings." 

Cullison  was  looking  at  him  with  the  steel  eyes 
55 


CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT 

that  bored  into  him  like  a  gimlet.     Now  he  spoke 
sharply. 

"I've  got  an  account  running  with  Soapy  Stone. 
Some  day  I'll  settle  it  likely.  But  that  ain't  the 
point  now.  Do  you  know  his  friends — the  bunch 
he  trails  with?" 

Wariness  still  seemed  to  crouch  in  the  cool  eyes 
of  Flandrau. 

"And  if  I  say  yes,  I'll  bet  your  next  question 
will  be  about  the  time  and  the  place  I  last  saw 
them." 

Kate  picked  up  a  photograph  from  the  table  and 
handed  it  to  the  prisoner.  "We're  not  interested  in 
his  friends — except  one  of  them.  Did  you  ever  see 
the  boy  that  sat  for  that  picture?" 

The  print  was  a  snapshot  of  a  boy  about  nine 
teen,  a  good  looking  handsome  fellow,  a  little  sulky 
around  the  mouth  but  with  a  pair  of  straight  honest 
eyes. 

Curly  shook  his  head  slowly.  Yet  he  was  vaguely 
reminded  of  someone  he  knew.  Glancing  up,  he 
found  instantly  the  clew  to  what  had  puzzled  him. 
The  young  man  in  the  picture  was  like  Kate  Culli- 
son,  like  her  father  too  for  that  matter. 

"He's  your  brother."  The  words  were  out  be 
fore  Flandrau  could  stop  them. 

"Yes.    You've  never  met  him?" 

"No." 

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CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT 

Cullison  had  been  watching  the  young  man 
steadily.  "Never  saw  him  with  Soapy  Stone?" 

"No." 

"Never  heard  Stone  speak  of  Sam  Cullison?" 

"No.  Soapy  doesn't  talk  much  about  who  his 
friends  are." 

The  ex-sheriff  nodded.    "I've  met  him." 

Of  course  he  had  met  him.  Curly  knew  the  story 
of  how  in  one  drive  he  had  made  a  gather  of  out 
laws  that  had  brought  fame  to  him.  Soapy  had 
broken  through  the  net,  but  the  sheriff  had  followed 
him  into  the  hills  alone  and  run  him  to  earth.  What 
passed  between  the  men  nobody  ever  found  out. 
Stone  had  repeatedly  given  it  out  that  he  could  not 
be  taken  alive.  But  Cullison  had  brought  him  down 
to  the  valley  bound  and  cowed.  In  due  season  the 
bandits  had  gone  over  the  road  to  Yuma.  Soapy 
and  the  others  had  sworn  to  get  their  revenge  some 
day.  Now  they  were  back  in  the  hills  at  their  old 
tricks.  Was  it  possible  that  Cullison's  son  was  with 
them,  caught  in  a  trap  during  some  drunken  frolic 
just  as  Curly  had  been?  In  what  way  could  Stone 
pay  more  fully  the  debt  of  hate  he  owed  the  former 
sheriff  than  by  making  his  son  a  villain? 

The  little  doctor  came  briskly  into  the  room. 

"Everybody  out  but  the  nurse.  You've  had  com 
pany  enough  for  one  day,  Luck,"  he  announced 
cheerily. 

57 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

Kate  followed  Maloney  and  his  prisoner  to  the 
porch. 

"About  the  letters  of  your  friend  that  was  shot," 
she  said  to  Curly.  "Doctor  Brown  was  telling  me 
what  you  said.  I'll  see  they  reach  Miss  Anderson. 
Do  you  know  in  what  restaurant  she  works  ?" 

"No.  Mac  didn't  tell  me."  The  boy  gulped  to 
swallow  an  unexpected  lump  in  his  throat.  "They 
was  expecting  to  get  married  soon." 

"I — I'll  write  to  her,"  Kate  promised,  her  eyes 
misty. 

"I'd  be  obliged,  Miss.  Mac  was  a  good  boy. 
Anyone  will  tell  you  that.  And  he  was  awful  fond 
of  her.  He  talked  about  her  that  last  night  before 
the  camp  fire.  I  led  him  into  this." 

"I'll  tell  her  what  you  say." 

"Do.  Tell  her  he  felt  bad  about  what  he  had 
done.  Bad  companions  got  him  going  wrong,  but 
he  sure  would  have  settled  down  into  a  good  man. 
That's  straight  goods,  too.  You  write  it  strong." 

The  girl's  eyes  were  shiny  with  tears.  "Yes,"  she 
answered  softly. 

"I  ain't  any  Harvard  A.  B.  Writing  letters  ain't 
my  long  suit.  I'm  always  disremembering  whether 
a  man  had  ought  to  say  have  went  and  have  knew. 
Verbs  are  the  beatingest  things.  But  I  know  you'll 
fix  it  up  right  so  as  to  let  that  little  girl  do\fcn 
easy." 

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CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

"I've  changed  my  mind.  I'll  not  write  but  go  to 
see  her)' 

Curly  could  only  look  his  thanks.  Words 
seemed  strangely  inadequate.  But  Kate  understood 
the  boy's  unspoken  wish  and  nodded  her  head  re 
assuringly  as  he  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER  V 
LAURA   LONDON 

Kite  Bonfils  and  Maloney  took  Curly  back  to 
Saguache  and  turned  him  over  to  Sheriff  Bolt. 

"How  about  bail?"  Maloney  asked. 

The  sheriff  smiled.  He  was  a  long  lean  leather- 
faced  man  with  friendly  eyes  from  which  humorous 
wrinkles  radiated. 

"You  honing  to  go  bail  for  him,  Dick?" 

"How  much?" 

"Oh,  say  two  thousand." 

"You're  on." 

"What!" 

A  cowpuncher  with  fifty  dollars  two  weeks  after 
pay  day  was  a  rarity.  No  wonder  Bolt  was  sur 
prised. 

"It's  not  my  money.  Luck  Cullison  is  going  bail 
for  him,"  Maloney  explained. 

"Luck  Cullison !"  Maloney's  words  had  surprised 
the  exclamation  from  Curly.  Why  should  the 
owner  of  the  Circle  C  of  all  men  go  bail  for  him  ? 

The  sheriff  commented  dryly  on  the  fact.  "I 
thought  this  kid  was  the  one  that  shot  him." 

"That  was  just  a  happenstance.  Curly  shot  t6 
save  his  bacon.  Luck  don't  hold  any  grudge." 

60 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

"So  I  should  judge.  Luck  gave  you  his  check, 
did  he?" 

Bolt  belonged  to  the  political  party  opposed  to 
Cullison.  He  had  been  backed  by  Cass  Fendrick, 
a  sheepman  in  feud  with  the  cattle  interests  and 
in  particular  with  the  Circle  C  outfit.  But  he  could 
not  go  back  on  his  word.  He  and  Maloney  called 
together  on  the  district  attorney.  An  hour  later 
Dick  returned  to  the  jail. 

"It's  all  right,  kid,"  he  told  Curly.  "You  can 
shake  off  the  dust  of  Saguache  from  your  hoofs  till 
court  meets  in  September." 

To  Flandrau  the  news  seemed  too  good  for  the 
truth.  Less  than  twenty-four  hours  ago  he  had  been 
waiting  for  the  end  of  the  road  with  a  rope  around 
his  neck.  Now  he  was  free  to  slip  a  saddle  on  his 
pony  Keno  and  gallop  off  as  soon  as  he  pleased. 
How  such  a  change  had  been  brought  about  he  did 
not  yet  understand. 

While  he  and  Maloney  were  sitting  opposite  each 
other  at  the  New  Orleans  Hash  House  waiting  for 
a  big  steak  with  onions  he  asked  questions. 

"I  don't  savvy  Cullison's  play.  Whyfor  is  he 
digging  up  two  thousand  for  me?  How  does  he 
know  I  won't  cut  my  stick  for  Mexico?" 

"How  do  I  know  it?" 

"Well,  do  you?" 

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CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

Maloney  helped  himself  to  the  oyster  crackers  to 
pass  the  time.  "Sure  I  do." 

"How?" 

"Search  me.  But  I  know  you'll  be  here  in  Sep 
tember  if  you're  alive  and  kicking." 

Flandrau  persisted.  "But  Luck  don't  owe  me 
anything,  except  one  pill  sent  promiscuous  to  his 
address.  What's  he  going  down  into  his  jeans  for? 
Will  you  tell  me  that?  And  shove  them  crackers 
north  by  east.  Got  to  fill  up  on  something." 

"Ain't  you  as  good  a  guesser  as  I  am,  Curly  ?" 

"Well  then,  here's  my  guess.  Miss  Kate  made 
him." 

"I  reckon  maybe  she  influenced  him.  But  why 
did  she?  You  don't  figure  that  curly  topknot  of 
yours  is  disturbing  her  dreams  any,  do  you?" 

"Quit  your  joshing  and  tell  me  why." 

"I  can't  tell  you  for  sure.  But  here's  my  guess. 
Don't  cost  you  a  cent  if  you  ain't  satisfied  with  it. 
First  off,  there  was  poor  Mac  shot  by  the  Circle  C 
boys.  Course  Mac  was  a  horse  thief,  but  then  he 
was  a  kid  too.  That  worried  the  little  girl  some. 
She  got  to  thinking  about  brother  Sam  and  how 
he  might  be  in  the  same  fix  one  of  these  days  as 
you  are  now.  He's  on  her  mind  a  good  deal,  Sam 
is.  Same  way  with  the  old  man  too,  I  reckon, 
though  he  don't  say  much.  Well,  she  decided  Soapy 
Stone  had  led  you  astray  like  he's  doing  with  Sam. 

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CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

It  got  to  worrying  her  for  fear  her  brother  might 
need  a  friend  some  time.  So  she  handed  over  her 
worry  to  the  old  man  and  made  him  dig  up  for 
you." 

"That's  about  it.  Tell  me  what  you  know  of 
Sam.  Is  he  as  white  as  the  rest  of  the  family?" 

"Sam  is  all  right,  but  he  has  got  off  wrong  foot 
first.  He  and  the  old  man  got  to  kind  of  disagreeing, 
for  the  kid  was  a  wild  colt.  Come  by  it  honestly  from 
the  old  man  too.  Well,  they  had  a  row  one  time 
when  Sam  got  into  trouble.  Luck  told  him  he 
never  wanted  to  see  him  again.  Sam  lit  out,  and 
next  folks  knew  he  was  trailing  with  Soapy's  gang. 
Consequence  is,  Sam's  hitting  the  toboggan  for 
Tophet  by  all  accounts." 

"Looks  like  some  one  ought  to  be  able  to  pry  him 
loose  from  that  bunch,"  Curly  mused  aloud. 

Maloney  grinned  across  at  him.  "You  try  it,, 
son.  You've  always  led  a  good  pious  life.  He 
sure  would  listen  to  you." 

He  had  said  it  as  a  jest,  but  Curly  did  not  laugh. 
Why  not?  Why  shouldn't  he  hunt  up  Sam  and 
let  him  know  how  his  folks  were  worrying  about 
him?  What  was  to  hinder  him  from  trying  to 
wipe  out  some  of  the  big  debt  he  owed  the  Cullison 
family?  He  was  footloose  till  September  and  out 
of  a  job.  For  he  could  not  go  back  to  the  Map  of 
Texas  with  his  hat  in  his  hand  and  a  repentant 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

whine  on  his  lips.  Why  not  take  a  hike  into  the 
hills  and  round  up  the  boy?  Of  course  Sam  might 
not  listen  to  him,  but  he  could  not  tell  that  till  he 
had  tried.  It  had  taken  him  scarcely  a  moment 
to  make  up  his  mind.  The  smile  had  not  yet  died 
out  of  Maloney's  eyes  when  he  spoke. 

"Damn  if  I  don't  take  a  crack  at  it." 

The  man  on  the  other  side  of  the  table  stared  at 
him. 

"Meaning  that,  are  you?" 

"Yep." 

"Might  be  some  lively  if  Soapy  gets  wise  to  your 
intentions,"  he  said  in  a  casual  sort  of  way. 

"I  don't  aim  to  declare  them  out  loud." 

That  was  all  they  said  about  it  at  the  time.  The 
rest  of  the  evening  was  devoted  to  pleasure.  After 
dinner  they  took  in  a  moving  picture  show.  The 
first  film  was  a  Western  melodrama  and  it  pleased 
them  both  immensely. 

"I'd  be  afraid  to  live  in  a  country  where  guns 
popped  like  they  do  in  moving  picture  land,"  Curly 
drawled.  "Where  is  it  anyhow?  It  ain't  Texas, 
nor  Oklahoma,  nor  Wyoming,  nor  Montana,  nor 
any  of  the  spots  in  between,  because  I've  been  in  all 
of  them." 

Maloney  laughed.  "Day  before  yesterday  that's 
the  way  I'd  a-talked  my  own  self,  but  now  I  know 
better.  What  about  your  little  stunt?  Wasn't  that 

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CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

warm  enough  for  you?  Didn't  guns  pop  enough? 
Don't  you  talk  about  moving  pictures!" 

After  the  picture  show  there  were  other  things. 
But  both  of  them  trod  the  narrow  path,  Maloney 
because  he  was  used  to  doing  so  and  Flandrau 
because  his  experiences  had  sobered  him. 

"I'm  on  the  water  wagon,  Dick."  He  grinned 
ruefully  at  his  friend.  "Nothing  like  locking  the 
stable  after  your  bronc's  been  stole.  I'd  a-been  a 
heap  better  off  if  I'd  got  on  the  wagon  a  week 
ago." 

Since  their  way  was  one  for  several  miles  Maloney 
and  Curly  took  the  road  together  next  morning 
at  daybreak.  Their  ponies  ambled  along  side  by 
side  at  the  easy  gait  characteristic  of  the  Southwest. 
Steadily  they  pushed  into  the  brown  baked  desert. 
Little  dust  whirls  in  the  shape  of  inverted  cones 
raced  across  the  sand  wastes.  The  heat  danced 
along  the  road  in  front  of  them  in  shimmering 
waves. 

Your  plainsman  is  a  taciturn  individual.  These 
two  rode  for  an  hour  without  exchanging  a  syllable, 
ffhen  Curly  was  moved  to  talk. 

"Can  you  tell  me  how  it  is  a  man  can  get  fond 
of  so  Godforsaken  a  country?  Cactus  and  grease- 
wood  and  mesquite,  and  for  a  change  mesquite  and 
greasewood  and  cactus!  Nothing  but  sand  washes 
and  sand  hills,  except  the  naked  mountains  'way 

6$ 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

off  with  their  bones  sticking  through.  But  in  the 
mo'ning  like  this,  when  the  world's  kind  o'  smiley 
with  the  sunshine,  or  after  dark  when  things  are 
sorter  violet  soft  and  the  mountains  lose  their 
edges — say,  would  you  swap  it  for  any  other  country 
on  earth?" 

Maloney  nodded.  He  had  felt  that  emotion  a 
hundred  times,  though  he  had  never  put  it  into 
words. 

At  Willow  Wash  their  ways  diverged.  They 
parted  with  a  casual  "So-long;  see  you  later." 
Curly  was  striking  for  the  headwaters  of  Dead 
Cow  Creek,  where  Soapy  Stone  had  a  horse  ranch. 

He  put  up  that  night  at  the  place  of  a  nester 
in  the  foothills.  His  host  looked  at  him  curiously 
when  he  mentioned  his  destination,  but  he  did  not 
say  anything.  It  was  none  of  his  business  how 
many  young  fellows  rode  to  Soapy's  ranch. 

Flandrau  took  the  trail  again  next  morning  after 
breakfast.  About  two  o'clock  he  reached  a  little 
park  in  the  hills,  in  the  middle  of  which,  by  a  dry 
creek,  lay  a  ranch. 

The  young  man  at  first  thought  the  place  was 
deserted  for  the  day,  but  when  he  called  a  girl 
appeared  at  the  door.  She  smiled  up  at  him  with 
the  lively  interest  any  ranch  girl  may  be  expected 
to  feel  in  a  stranger  who  happens  to  be  both  young 
and  good  looking. 

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CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

She  was  a  young  person  of  soft  curves  and  en 
gaging  dimples.  Beneath  the  brown  cheeks  of 
Arizona  was  a  pink  that  came  and  went  very  at 
tractively. 

Curly  took  off  his  dusty  gray  hat.  " Buenos 
tardes,  senorita!  I'll  bet  I'm  too  late  to  draw  any 
dinner." 

"Buenos,  senor"  she  answered  promptly.  "I'll 
bet  you'd  lose  your  money." 

He  swung  from  the  saddle.  "That's  good  hear 
ing.  When  a  fellow  has  had  his  knees  clamped  to 
the  side  of  a  bronch  for  seven  hours  he's  sure  ready 
for  the  dinner  bell." 

"You  can  wash  over  there  by  the  pump.  There's 
a  towel  on  the  fence." 

She  disappeared  into  the  house,  and  Curly  took 
care  of  his  horse,  washed,  and  sauntered  back  to  the 
porch.  He  could  smell  potatoes  frying  and  could 
hear  the  sizzling  of  ham  and  eggs. 

While  he  ate  the  girl  flitted  in  and  out,  soft-footed 
and  graceful,  replenishing  his  plate  from  time  to 
time. 

Presently  he  discovered  that  her  father  was  away 
hunting  strays  on  Sunk  Creek,  that  the  nearest 
neighbor  was  seven  miles  distant,  and  that  Stone's 
ranch  was  ten  miles  farther  up  Dead  Cow.  - 

"Ever  meet  a  lad  called  Sam  Cullison  ?"  the  guest 
asked  carelessly. 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

Curly  was  hardly  prepared  to  see  the  color  whip 
into  her  cheeks  or  to  meet  the  quick  stabbing  look 
she  fastened  on  him. 

"You're  looking  for  him,  are  you?"  she  said. 

"Thought  while  I  was  here  I'd  look  him  up.  I 
know  his  folks  a  little." 

"Do  you  know  him?" 

He  shook  his  head.  She  looked  at  him  very 
steadily  before  she  spoke. 

"You  haven't  met  him  yet  but  you  want  to.  Is 
that  it?" 

"That's  it." 

"Will  you  have  another  egg?" 

Flandrau  laughed.  "No,  thanks.  Staying  up  at 
Stone's,  is  he?" 

"How  should  I  know  who's  staying  at  Stone's?" 

It  was  quite  plain  she  did  not  intend  to  tell  any 
thing  that  would  hurt  young  Cullison. 

"Oh,  well,  it  doesn't  matter.  I  ain't  lost  him  any 
to  speak  of,"  the  young  man  drawled. 

"Are  you  expecting  to  stop  in  the  hills  long— • 
or  just  visiting?" 

"Yes,"  Curly  answered,  with  his  most  innocent 
blank  wall  look. 

"Yes  which?" 

"Why,  whichever  you  like,  Miss  London.  What's 
worrying  you  ?  If  you'll  ask  me  plain  out  I'll  know 
how  to  answer  you." 

68 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

"So  you  know  my  name?" 

"Anything  strange  about  that?  The  Bar  99  is 
the  London  brand.  I  saw  your  calves  in  the,  corral 
with  their  flanks  still  sore.  Naturally  I  assume  the 
young  lady  I  meet  here  is  Miss  Laura  London." 

She  defended  her  suspicions.  "Folks  come  up 
here  with  their  mysterious  questions.  A  person 
would  think  nobody  lived  on  Dead  Cow  but  outlaws 
and  such,  to  hear  some  of  you  valley  people  tell  it." 

"There's  nothing  mysterious  about  me  and  my 
questions.  I'm  just  a  lunkheaded  cowpuncher  out 
of  a  job.  What  did  you  think  I  was?" 

"What  do  you  want  with  Sam  Cullison  ?  Are  you 
friendly  to  him  ?  Or  aren't  you  ?" 

"Ladies  first.  Are  you  friendly  to  him?  Or 
aren't  you?" 

Curly  smiled  gaily  across  the  table  at  her.  A 
faint  echo  of  his  pleasantry  began  to  dimple  the 
corners  of  her  mouth.  It  lit  her  eyes  and  spread 
from  them  till  the  prettiest  face  on  the  creek 
wrinkled  with  mirth.  Both  of  them  relaxed  to  peals 
of  laughter,  and  neither  of  them  quite  knew  the 
cause  of  their  hilarity. 

"Oh,  you!"  she  reproved  when  she  had  suffi 
ciently  recovered. 

"So  you  thought  I  was  a  detective  or  a  deputy 
sheriff.  That's  certainly  funny." 

"For  all  I  know  yet  you  may  be  one." 

69 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

"I  never  did  see  anyone  with  a  disposition  so 
dark-complected  as  yours.  If  you  won't  put  them 
suspicions  to  sleep  I'll  have  to  table  my  cards." 
From  his  pocket  he  drew  a  copy  of  the  Saguache 
Sentinel  and  showed  her  a  marked  story.  "Maybe 
that  will  explain  what  I'm  doing  up  on  Dead  Cow." 

This  was  what  Laura  London  read: 

From  Mesa  comes  the  news  of  another 
case  of  bold  and  flagrant  rustling.  On 
Friday  night  a  bunch  of  horses  belonging 
to  the  Bar  Double  M  were  rounded  up 
and  driven  across  the  mountains  to  this 
city.  The  stolen  animals  were  sold  here 
this  morning,  after  which  the  buyers  set 
out  at  once  for  the  border  and  the  thieves 
made  themselves  scarce.  It  is  claimed  that 
the  rustlers  were  members  of  the  notorious 
Soapy  Stone  outfit.  Two  of  the  four  were 
identified,  it  is  alleged,  as  William  Cran 
ston,  generally  known  as  "Bad  Bill,"  and 
a  young  vaquero  called  "Curly"  Flandrau. 

At  the  time  of  going  to  press  posses 
are  out  after  both  the  outlaws  and  the 
stolen  horses.  Chances  of  overtaking  both 
are  considered  excellent.  All  likely  points 
and  outlying  ranches  have  been  notified  by 
telephone  whenever  possible. 

In  case  the  guilty  parties  are  appre 
hended  the  Sentinel  hopes  an  example  will 
be  made  of  them  that  will  deter  others  of 
like  stamp  from  a  practice  that  has  of  late 

TO 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

been  far  too  common.  Lawlessness  seems 
to  come  in  cycles.  Just  now  the  southern 
tier  of  counties  appears  to  be  suffering 
from  such  a  sporadic  attack.  Let  all  good 
men  combine  to  stamp  it  out.  The  time 
has  passed  when  Arizona  must  stand  as  a 
synonym  for  anarchy. 

She  looked  up  at  the  young  man  breathlessly, 
her  pretty  lips  parted,  her  dilated  eyes  taking  him 
in  solemnly.  A  question  trembled  on  her  lips. 

"Say  it,"  advised  Flandrau. 

The  courage  to  ask  what  she  was  thinking  came 
back  in  a  wave.  "Then  I  will.  Are  you  a  rustler?" 

"That's  what  the  paper  says,  don't  it?" 

"Are  you  this  man  mentioned  here?  What's 
his  name — 'Curly'  Flandrau?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you're  a  rustler?" 

"What  do  you  think?  Am  I  more  like  a  rustler 
than  a  deputy  sheriff?  Stands  to  reason  I  can't 
be  both." 

Her  eyes  did  not  leave  him.  She  brushed  aside 
his  foolery  impatiently.  "You  don't  even  deny  it.", 

"I  haven't  yet.     I  expect  I  will  later."  1 

"Why  do  men  do  such  things?"  she  went  on,' 
letting  the  hands  that  held  the  paper  drop  into  her 
lap  helplessly.  "You  don't  look  bad.  Anyone 
would  think " 

71 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

Her  sentence  tailed  out  and  died  away.  She  was 
still  looking  at  Curly,  but  he  could  see  that  her 
mind  had  flown  to  someone  else.  He  would  have 
bet  a  month's  pay  that  she  was  thinking  of  another 
lad  who  was  wild  but  did  not  look  bad. 

Flandrau  rose  and  walked  round  the  table  to  her. 
"Much  obliged,  Miss  Laura.  I'll  shake  hands  on 
that  with  you.  You've  guessed  it.  Course,  me  be 
ing  so  'notorious'  I  hate  to  admit  it,  but  I  ain't  bad 
any  more  than  he  is." 

She  gave  him  a  quick  shy  look.  He  had  made 
a  center  shot  she  was  not  expecting.  But,  woman 
like,  she  did  not  admit  it. 

"You  mean  this  'Bad  Bill'?" 

"You  know  who  I  mean  all  right.  His  name  is 
Sam  Cullison.  And  you  needn't  to  tell  me  where 
he  is.  I'll  find  him." 

"I  know  you  don't  mean  any  harm  to  him."  But 
she  said  it  as  if  she  were  pleading  with  him. 

"C'rect.  I  don't.  Can  you  tell  me  how  to  get 
to  Soapy  Stone's  horse  ranch  from  here,  Miss  Lon 
don?" 

She  laughed.  Her  doubts  were  vanishing  like 
mist  before  the  sunshine.  "Good  guess.  At  least 
he  was  there  the  last  I  heard." 

"And  I  expect  your  information  is  pretty  re» 
cent" 


CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT 

That  drew  another  little  laugh  accompanied  by 
a  blush. 

"Don't  you  think  I  have  told  you  enough  for 
one  day,  Mr.  Flandrau?" 

"That  'Mr.'  sounds  too  solemn.  My  friends  call 
me  'Curly/  "  he  let  her  know. 

She  remembered  that  he  was  a  stranger  and  a 
rustler  and  she  drew  herself  up  stiffly.  This  pleas 
ant  young  fellow  was  too  familiar. 

"If  you  take  this  trail  to  the  scrub  pines  above, 
then  keep  due  north  for  about  four  miles,  you'll 
strike  the  creek  again.  Just  follow  the  trail  along 
it  to  the  horse  ranch." 

With  that  she  turned  on  her  heel  and  walked  into 
the  kitchen. 

Curly  had  not  meant  to  be  "fresh."  He  was  al 
ways  ready  for  foolery  with  the  girls,  but  he  was 
not  the  sort  to  go  too  far.  Now  he  blamed  himself 
for  having  moved  too  fast.  He  had  offended  her 
sense  of  what  was  the  proper  thing. 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  saddle  and  take 
the  road. 


73 


CHAPTER  VI 
A   BEAR  TRAP 

The  winding  trail  led  up  to  the  scrub  pines  and 
from  there  north  into  the  hills.  Curly  had  not 
traveled  far  when  he  heard  the  sound  of  a  gun  fired 
three  times  in  quick  succession.  He  stopped  to  lis 
ten.  Presently  there  came  a  faint  far  call  for  help. 

Curly  cantered  around  the  shoulder  of  the  hill 
and  saw  a  man  squatting  on  the  ground.  He  was 
stooped  forward  in  an  awkward  fashion  with  his 
back  to  Flandrau. 

"What's  up?" 

At  the  question  the  man  looked  over  his  shoulder. 
Pain  and  helpless  rage  burned  in  the  deep-set  black 
eyes. 

"Nothing  at  all.  Don't  you  see  I'm  just  taking 
a  nap?"  he  answered  quietly. 

Curly  recognized  him  now.  The  man  was  Soapy 
Stone.  Behind  the  straight  thin-lipped  mouth  a 
double  row  of  strong  white  teeth  were  clamped 
tightly.  Little  beads  of  perspiration  stood  out  all 
over  his  forehead.  A  glance  showed  the  reason. 
One  of  his  hands  was  caught  in  a  bear  trap  fastened 
to  a  cotton  wood.  Its  jaws  held  him  so  that  he 
could  not  move. 

74 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

The  young  man  swung  from  the  back  of  Keno. 
He  found  the  limb  of  a  cottonwood  about  as  thick 
as  his  forearm  below  the  elbow.  This  he  set  close 
to  the  trap. 

"Soon  as  I  get  the  lip  open  shove  her  in,"  he 
told  Stone. 

The  prisoner  moistened  his  dry  lips.  It  was 
plain  that  he  was  in  great  pain. 

The  rescuer  slipped  the  toes  of  his  boots  over 
the  lower  lip  and  caught  the  upper  one  with  both 
hands.  Slowly  the  mouth  of  the  trap  opened.  Stone 
slipped  in  the  wooden  wedge  and  withdrew  his 
crushed  wrist.  By  great  good  fortune  the  steel 
had  caught  on  the  leather  gauntlet  he  was  wearing. 
Otherwise  it  must  have  mangled  the  arm  to  a  pulp. 

Even  now  he  was  suffering  a  good  deal. 

"You'll  have  to  let  a  doc  look  at  it,"  Curly  sug 
gested. 

Stone  agreed.  "Reckon  I  better  strike  for  the 
Bar  99."  He  was  furious  at  himself  for  having  let 
such  an  accident  happen.  The  veriest  tenderfoot 
might  have  known  better. 

His  horse  had  disappeared,  but  Curly  helped  him 
to  the  back  of  Keno.  Together  they  took  the  trail 
for  the  Bar  99.  On  the  face  of  the  wounded  man 
gathered  the  moisture  caused  by  intense  pain.  His 
jaw  was  clenched  to  keep  back  the  groans. 

"Hard  sledding,  looks  like,"  Curly  sympathized. 
75 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

"Reckon  I  can  stand  the  grief,"  Stone  grunted. 

Nor  did  he  speak  again  until  they  reached  the 
ranch  and  Laura  London  looked  at  him  from  a 
frightened  face. 

"What  is  it?" 

"Ran  a  sliver  in  my  finger,  Miss  Laura.  Too 
bad  to  trouble  you,"  Soapy  answered  with  a  sneer 
on  his  thin  lips. 

A  rider  for  the  Bar  99  had  just  ridden  up  and 
Laura  sent  him  at  once  for  the  doctor.  She  led  the 
way  into  the  house  and  swiftly  gathered  bandages, 
a  sponge,  and  a  basin  of  water.  Together  she  and 
Curly  bathed  and  wrapped  the  wound.  Stone  did 
not  weaken,  though  he  was  pretty  gray  about  the 
lips. 

Laura  was  as  gentle  as  she  could  be. 

"I  know  I'm  hurting  you,"  she  said,  her  fingers 
trembling. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.  Great  pleasure  to  have  you  for 
a  nurse.  I'm  certainly  in  luck."  Curly  did  not 
understand  the  bitterness  in  the  sardonic  face  and 
he  resented  it. 

"If  the  doctor  would  only  hurry,"  Laura  mur 
mured. 

"Yes,  I  know  I'm  a  great  trouble.  Too  bad  Curly 
found  me." 

She  was  busy  with  the  knots  of  the  outer  wrap 
ping  and  did  not  look  up.  "It  is  no  trouble." 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

"I'm  too  meddlesome.  Serves  me  right  for  being 
inquisitive  about  your  father's  trap." 

"He'll  be  sorry  you  were  caught." 

"Yes.    He'll  have  to  climb  the  hill  and  reset  it." 

That  something  was  wrong  between  them  Curly 
could  see.  Soapy  was  very  polite  in  spite  of  his 
bitterness,  but  his  hard  eyes  watched  her  as  a  cat 
does  a  mouse.  Moreover,  the  girl  was  afraid  of 
him.  He  could  tell  that  by  the  timid  startled  way 
she  had  of  answering.  Now  why  need  she  fear  the 
man?  It  would  be  as  much  as  his  life  was  worth 
to  lift  a  hand  to  hurt  her. 

After  the  doctor  had  come  and  had  attended  to 
the  crushed  wrist  Curly  stepped  out  to  the  porch 
to  find  Laura.  She  was  watering  her  roses  and  he 
went  across  the  yard  to  her. 

"I'm  right  sorry  for  what  I  said,  Miss  Laura. 
Once  in  a  while  a  fellow  makes  a  mistake.  If  he's 
as  big  a  chump  as  I  am  it's  liable  to  happen  a  little 
oftener.  But  I'm  not  really  one  of  those  smart 
guys." 

Out  came  her  gloved  hand  in  the  firmest  of 
grips. 

"I  know  that  now.  You  didn't  think.  And  I 
made  a  mistake.  I  thought  you  were  taking  ad 
vantage  because  I  had  been  friendly.  I'm  glad  you 
spoke  about  it.  We'll  forget  it." 

"Then  maybe  we'll  be  friends  after  all,  but  I 
77 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

sha'n't  tell  you  what  my  friends  call  me,"  he  an 
swered  gaily. 

She  laughed  out  in  a  sudden  bubbling  of  mirth. 
"Take  care." 

"Oh,  I  will.     I  won't  even  spell  it." 

He  helped  her  with  the  watering.  Presently  she 
spoke,  with  a  quick  look  toward  the  house. 

"There's  something  I  want  to  say." 

"Yes." 

"Something  I  want  you  to  do  for  me." 

"I  expect  maybe  I'll  do  it." 

She  said  nothing  more  for  a  minute,  then  the 
thing  that  was  troubling  her  burst  from  the  lips  of 
the  girl  as  a  flame  leaps  out  of  a  pent  fire. 

"It's  about  that  boy  he  has  up  there."  She  gave  a 
hopeless  little  gesture  toward  the  hills. 

"Sam  Cullison?" 

"Yes." 

"What  about  him?" 

"He's  bent  on  ruining  him,  always  has  been  ever 
since  he  got  a  hold  on  him.  I  can't  tell  you  how 

I  know  it,  but  I'm  sure And  now  he's  more 

set  on  it  than  ever." 

Curly  thought  he  could  guess  why,  but  he  wanted 
to  make  sure.  "Because  you  are  Sam's  friend  ?" 

The  pink  flooded  her  cheeks.     "Yes." 

"And  because  you  won't  be  Soapy  Stone's 
friend?" 

78 


CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT 

She  flashed  a  startled  look  at  him.  "How  do  you 
know?" 

"Jealous,  is  he?" 

Her  face,  buried  in  the  blooms  she  had  been 
cutting,  was  of  the  same  tint  as  the  roses. 

"And  so  he  wants  to  hurt  you  through  him?" 
Flandrau  added. 

"Yes.  If  he  can  drag  Sam  down  and  get  him 
into  trouble  he'll  pay  off  two  grudges  at  once.  And 
he  will  too.  You'll  see.  He's  wily  as  an  Indian. 
For  that  matter  there  is  Apache  blood  in  him,  folks 
say." 

"What  about  young  Cullison?  Can't  he  make  a 
fight  for  himself?" 

"Oh,  you  know  how  boys  are.  Sam  is  completely 
under  this  man's  influence."  Her  voice  broke  a 
little.  "And  I  can't  help  him.  I'm  only  a  girl.  He 
won't  listen  to  me.  Besides,  Dad  won't  let  me 
have  anything  to  do  with  him  because  of  the  way 
he's  acting.  What  Sam  needs  is  a  man  friend,  one 
just  as  strong  and  determined  as  Soapy  but  one  who 
is  good  and  the  right  sort  of  an  influence." 

"Are  you  picking  me  for  that  responsible  friend 
who  is  to  be  such  a  powerful  influence  for  good?" 
Curly  asked  with  a  smile. 

"Yes — yes,  I  am."  She  looked  up  at  him  con 
fidently. 

"Haven't  you  forgotten  that  little  piece  in  the 
79 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

Sentinel?  How  does  it  go?  An  example  had 
ought  to  be  made  of  the  desperadoes,  and  all  the 
rest  of  it." 

"I  don't  care  what  it  says.    I've  seen  you." 

"So  had  the  editor." 

She  waved  his  jests  aside.  "Oh,  well!  You've 
done  wrong.  What  of  that?  Can't  I  tell  you  are 
a  man?  And  I  don't  care  how  much  fun  you  make 
of  me.  You're  good  too." 

Curly  met  her  on  the  ground  of  her  own  serious 
ness.  "I'll  tell  you  something,  Miss  Laura.  Maybe 
you'll  be  glad  to  know  that  the  reason  I'm  going 
to  the  horse  ranch  is  to  help  Sam  Cullison  if  I 
can." 

He  went  on  to  tell  her  the  whole  story  of  what 
the  Cullisons  had  done  for  him.  In  all  that  he 
said  there  was  not  one  word  to  suggest  such  a 
thing,  but  Laura  London's  mind  jumped  the  gaps 
to  a  knowledge  of  the  truth  that  Curly  himself  did 
not  have.  The  young  man  was  in  love  with  Kate 
Cullison.  She  was  sure  of  it.  Also,  she  was  his 
ally  in  the  good  cause  of  romance. 

When  Curly  walked  back  into  the  house,  Stone 
laid  down  the  paper  he  had  been  reading. 

"'I  see  the  Sentinel  hints  that  Mr.  Curly  Flandrau 
had  better  be  lynched,"  he  jeered. 

"The  Sentinel  don't  always  hit  the  bull's-eye, 
Soapy,"  returned  the  young  man  evenly.  "It  thinks. 

80 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

I  belong  to  the  Soapy  Stone  outfit,  but  we  know  I 
haven't  that  honor." 

"There's  no  such  outfit — not  in  the  sense  he 
means,"  snapped  the  man  on  the  lounge.  "What 
are  your  plans?  Where  you  going  to  lie  low? 
Picked  a  spot  yet?" 

"I  don't  know  where  I'm  going,  but  I'm  on  the 
way,"  Curly  assured  him  gaily. 

Soapy  frowned  at  him  under  the  heavy  eyebrows 
that  gave  him  so  menacing  an  effect. 

"Better  come  back  with  me  to  the  ranch  till  you 
look  around." 

"Suits  me  right  down  to  the  ground  if  it  does 
you." 

Someone  came  whistling  into  the  house  and 
opened  the  door  of  the  room.  He  was  a  big  lank 
fellow  with  a  shotgun  in  his  hands.  "From  Mis 
souri"  was  stamped  all  over  his  awkward  frame. 
He  stood  staring  at  his  unexpected  guests.  His 
eyes,  clashing  with  those  of  Stone,  grew  chill  and 
hard. 

"So  you're  back  here  again,  are  you?"  he  asked, 
looking  pretty  black. 

Stone's  lip  smile  mocked  him.  "I  don't  know 
how  you  guessed  it,  but  I  sure  am  here." 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  to  keep  away  from  the  Bar  99 
— you  and  your  whole  cursed  outfit?" 

"Seems  to  me  you  did  mention  something  of 
81 


CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT 

that  sort.  But  how  was  I  to  know  whether  you 
meant  it  unless  I  came  back  to  see?" 

Laura  came  into  the  room  and  ranged  herself 
beside  her  father.  Her  hand  rested  lightly  on  his 
forearm. 

"He  got  caught  in  one  of  your  bear  traps  and 
this  young  man  brought  him  here  to  wait  for  the 
doctor/'  she  explained. 

"Hmp!" 

The  Missourian  stared  without  civility  at  his 
guest,  turned  on  his  heel,  and  with  his  daughter 
beside  him  marched  out  of  the  room.  He  could  not 
decently  tell  Stone  to  leave  while  he  was  under  the 
care  of  a  doctor,  but  he  did  not  intend  to  make  him 
welcome.  London  was  a  blunt  grizzled  old  fellow 
who  said  what  he  thought  even  about  the  notorious 
Soapy  Stone. 

"We'll  pull  our  freights  right  away,  Curly," 
Stone  announced  as  soon  as  his  host  had  gone. 

The  young  man  went  to  the  stable  and  saddled 
Keno.  While  he  was  tightening  the  cinch  a  shadow 
fell  across  his  shoulder.  He  did  not  need  to  look 
round  to  see  whose  it  was. 

"I'm  so  glad  you're  going  to  the  horse  ranch. 
You  will  look  out  for  Sam.  I  trust  you.  I  don't 
know  why,  but  I  have  the  greatest  confidence  in 
you,"  the  owner  of  the  shadow  explained  sweetly. 

Curly  smiled  blandly  over  his  shoulder  at  her. 
82 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

"Fine!  That's  a  good  uplifting  line  of  talk,  Miss 
Laura.  Now  will  you  please  explain  why  you're 
feeding  me  this  particular  bunch  of  taffy?  What 
is  it  I'm  to  do  for  you?" 

She  blushed  and  laughed  at  the  same  time.  Her 
hand  came  from  behind  her  back.  In  it  was  a 
letter. 

"But  I  do  mean  it,  every  word  of  it." 

"That's  to  be  my  pay  for  giving  Master  Sam  his 
billy  doo,  is  it?" 

"How  did  you  guess?    It  is  a  letter  to  Sam." 

"How  did  I  guess  it?  Shows  I'm  sure  a  wiz, 
don't  it?" 

She  saw  her  father  coming  and  handed  him  the 
letter  quickly. 

"Here.  Take  it."  A  spark  of  mischief  lit  her 
eye  and  the  dimples  came  out  on  her  cheeks. 
"Good-by,  Curly." 


CHAPTER  VII 
BAD    MEDICINE 

The  house  at  the  horse  ranch  was  a  long,  low 
L-shaped  adobe  structure.  The  first  impression 
Curly  received  was  that  of  negligence.  In  places 
the  roof  sagged.  A  door  in  the  rear  hung  from 
one  hinge.  More  than  one  broken  pane  of  glass 
was  stuffed  with  paper.  The  same  evidence  of 
shiftlessness  could  be  seen  on  every  hand.  Fences 
had  collapsed  and  been  repaired  flimsily.  The  wood 
work  of  the  well  was  rotting.  The  windmill 
wheezed  and  did  its  work  languidly  for  lack  of  oil. 

Two  men  were  seated  on  the  porch  playing  seven 
up.  One  was  Bad  Bill,  the  other  Blackwell.  At 
sight  of  Curly  they  gave  up  their  game. 

"Hello,  kid!  Where  did  you  drop  from?"  Cran 
ston  asked. 

A  muscle  twitched  in  Flandrau's  cheek.  "They 
got  Mac." 

"Got  him!    Where?    At  Saguache?" 

"Ran  us  down  near  the  Circle  C.  Mac  opened 
fire.  They — killed  him." 

"Shot  him,  or ?"  Curly  was  left  to  guess 

the  other  half  of  the  question. 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

"Shot  him,  and  took  me  prisoner/' 

"They  couldn't  prove  a  thing,  could  they?" 

"They  could  prove  I  wounded  Cullison.  That 
was  enough  for  them.  They  set  out  to  hang  me. 
Later  they  changed  their  minds." 

"How  come  you  here?    Did  you  escape?" 

"Nope.     Friends  dug  up  bail." 

Cranston  did  not  ask  what  friends.  He  thought 
he  knew.  Alec  Flandrau,  an  uncle  of  Curly,  owned 
a  half  interest  in  the  Map  of  Texas  ranch.  No 
doubt  he  had  come  to  the  aid  of  the  young  scape 
goat. 

"I'll  bet  the  old  man  was  sore  at  having  to  ante," 
was  Big  Bill's  comment. 

"Say,  Soapy  has  been  telling  me  that  the  Cullison 
kid  is  up  here.  I  reckon  we  better  not  say  any 
thing  about  my  mixup  with  his  folks.  I'm  not 
looking  for  any  trouble  with  him." 

"All  right,  Curly.  That  goes  with  me.  How 
about  you,  Blackwell?" 

"Sure.    What  Sam  don't  know  won't  hurt  him." 

Curly  sat  down  on  the  porch  and  told  an  edited 
story  of  his  adventures  to  them.  Before  he  had 
finished  a  young  fellow  rode  up  and  dismounted. 
He  had  a  bag  of  quail  with  him  which  he  handed 
over  to  the  Mexican  cook.  After  he  had  unsaddled 
and  turned  his  pony  into  a  corral  he  joined  the  card 
players  on  the  porch. 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

By  unanimous  consent  the  game  was  changed 
to  poker.  Young  Cullison  had  the  chair  next  to 
Flandrau.  He  had,  so  Curly  thought,  a  strong 
family  resemblance  to  his  father  and  sister.  "His 
eye  jumps  straight  at  you  and  asks  its  questions 
right  off  the  reel/'  the  newcomer  thought.  Still 
a  boy  in  his  ways,  he  might  any  day  receive  the 
jolt  that  would  transform  him  into  a  man. 

The  cook's  "Come  and  get  it"  broke  up  the  game 
for  a  time.  They  trooped  to  supper,  where  for 
half  an  hour  they  discussed  without  words  fried 
quail,  cornbread  and  coffee.  Such  conversation  as 
there  was  held  strictly  to  necessary  lines  and  had  to 
do  with  the  transportation  of  edibles. 

Supper  over,  they  smoked  till  the  table  was 
cleared.  Then  coats  were  removed  and  they  sat 
down  to  the  serious  business  of  an  all  night  session 
of  draw. 

Curly  was  not  playing  to  win  money  so  much  as 
to  study  the  characters  of  those  present.  Bill  he 
knew  already  fairly  well  as  a  tough  nut  to  crack, 
game  to  the  core,  and  staunch  to  his  friends.  Black- 
well  was  a  bad  lot,  treacherous,  vindictive,  slippery 
as  an  eel.  Even  his  confederates  did  not  trust  him 
greatly.  But  it  was  Soapy  Stone  and  young  Culli 
son  that  interested  Flandrau  most.  The  former 
played  like  a  master.  He  chatted  carelessly,  but  he 
overlooked  no  points.  Sam  had  the  qualities  that 

86 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

go  to  make  a  brilliant  erratic  player,  but  he  lacked 
the  steadiness  and  the  finesse  of  the  veteran. 

The  last  play  before  they  broke  up  in  the  gray 
dawn  was  a  flashlight  on  Stone's  cool  audacity. 
The  limit  had  long  since  been  taken  off.  Blackwell 
and  Stone  had  been  the  winners  of  the  night,  and 
the  rest  had  all  lost  more  or  less. 

Curly  was  dealing.    Cranston  opened  the  pot. 

"She's  cracked,"  he  announced. 

Blackwell,  sitting  next  to  him,  had  been  waiting 
his  turn  with  palpable  eagerness.  "Got  to  boost 
her,  boys,  to  protect  Bill,"  he  explained  as  his  raise 
went  in. 

Sam,  who  had  drunk  more  than  was  good  for 
him,  raised  in  his  turn.  "Kick  her  again,  gentle 
men.  Me,  I'm  plumb  tired  of  that  little  song  of 
mine,  'Good  here'." 

Stone  stayed.     Curly  did  not  come  in. 

Cranston  showed  his  openers  and  laid  down  his 
hand.  Blackwell  hesitated,  then  raised  again. 

"Reckon  I'm  content  to  trail  along,"  Cullison  ad 
mitted,  pushing  in  the  necessary  chips. 

Soapy  rasped  his  stubby  chin,  looked  sideways 
at  Sam  and  then  at  Blackwell,  and  abruptly  shoved1 
in  chips  enough  to  call  the  raise. 

"Cards?"  asked  Curly. 

"I'll  play  these,"  Blackwell  announced. 

Sam  called  for  two  and  Stone  one. 
87 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

Blackwell  raised.     Sam,  grumbling,  stayed. 

"Might  as  well  see  what  you've  got  when  I've 
gone  this  far,"  he  gave  as  a  reason  for  throwing 
good  money  after  bad. 

Soapy  took  one  glance  at  his  new  card  and  came 
in  with  a  raise. 

Blackwell  slammed  his  fist  down  on  the  table. 
"Just  my  rotten  luck.  You've  filled." 

Stone  smiled,  then  dropped  his  eyes  to  his  cards. 
Suddenly  he  started.  What  had  happened  was 
plain.  He  had  misread  his  hand. 

With  a  cheerful  laugh  Blackwell  raised  in  his 
turn. 

"Lets  me  out,"  Sam  said. 

For  about  a  tenth  of  a  second  one  could  see 
triumph  ride  in  Soapy's  eyes.  "Different  here,"  he 
explained  in  a  quiet  businesslike  way.  All  his  chips 
were  pushed  forward  to  the  center  of  the  table. 

On  Blackwell's  face  were  mapped  his  thoughts. 
Curly  saw  his  stodgy  mind  working  on  the  problem, 
studying  helplessly  the  poker  eyes  of  his  easy  placid 
enemy.  Was  Soapy  bluffing?  Or  had  he  baited  a 
hook  for  him  to  swallow  ?  The  faintest  glimmer  of 
amusement  drifted  across  the  face  of  Stone.  He 
might  have  been  a  general  whose  plans  have  worked 
out  to  suit  him,  waiting  confidently  for  certain  vic 
tory.  The  longer  the  convict  looked  at  him  the 
surer  he  was  that  he  had  been  trapped. 

88 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND   STRAIGHT 

With  an  oath  he  laid  down  his  hand.  "You've 
got  me  beat.  Mine  is  only  a  jack  high  straight" 

Stone  put  down  his  cards  and  reached  for  the 
pot. 

Curly  laughed. 

Blackwell  whirled  on  him. 

"What's  so  condemned  funny?" 

"The  things  I  notice." 

"Meaning?" 

"That  I  wouldn't  have  laid  down  my  hand." 

"Betcher  ten  plunks  he  had  me  beat." 

"You're  on."  Curly  turned  to  Soapy.  "Object 
to  us  seeing  your  hand?" 

Stone  was  counting  his  chips.  He  smiled.  "It 
ain't  poker,  but  go  ahead.  Satisfy  yourselves." 

"You  turn  the  cards,"  Flandrau  said. 

A  king  of  diamonds  showed  first,  then  a  ten- 
spot  and  a  six-spot  of  the  same  suit. 

"A  flush,"  exulted  Blackwell. 

"I've  got  just  one  more  ten  left,  but  it  says  you're 
wrong." 

The  words  were  not  out  of  Curly's  mouth  be 
fore  the  other  had  taken  the  bet.  Soapy  looked  at 
Flandrau  with  a  new  interest.  Perhaps  this  boy 
was  not  such  a  youth  as  he  had  first  seemed. 

The  fourth  card  turned  was  a  king  of  hearts,  the 
last  a  six  of  spades.  Stone  had  had  two  pair  to 
go  on  and  had  not  bettered  at  the  draw. 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

Blackwell  tossed  down  two  bills  and  went  away 
furious. 

That  night  was  like  a  good  many  that  followed. 
Sam  was  at  an  impressionable  age,  inclined  to  be  led 
by  any  man  whom  he  admired.  Curly  knew  that 
he  could  gain  no  influence  over  him  by  preaching. 
He  had  to  live  the  rough-and-tumble  life  of  these 
men  who  dwelt  beyond  the  pale  of  the  law,  to  excel 
them  at  the  very  things  of  which  they  boasted.  But 
in  one  respect  he  held  himself  apart.  While  he  was 
at  the  horse  ranch  he  did  not  touch  a  drop  of  liquor. 

Laura  London's  letter  was  not  delivered  until 
the  second  day,  for,  though  she  had  not  told  her 
messenger  to  give  it  to  Sam  when  he  was  alone, 
Curly  guessed  this  would  be  better.  The  two  young 
men  had  ridden  down  to  Big  Tree  spring  to  get 
quail  for  supper. 

"Letter  for  you  from  a  young  lady,"  Flandrau 
said,  and  handed  it  to  Cullison. 

Sam  did  not  read  his  note  at  once,  but  put  it  in 
his  pocket  carelessly,  as  if  it  had  been  an  advertise 
ment.  They  lay  down  in  the  bushes  about  twenty 
yards  apart,  close  to  the  hole  where  the  birds  flew 
every  evening  to  water.  Hidden  by  the  mesquite, 
Sam  ran  over  his  letter  two  or  three  times  while 
he  was  waiting.  It  was  such  a  message  as  any 
brave-hearted,  impulsive  girl  might  send  to  the  man 
she  loved  when  he  seemed  to  her  to  walk  in  danger. 

90 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

Cullison  loved  her  for  the  interest  she  took  in  himr 
even  while  he  ridiculed  her  fears. 

Presently  the  quails  came  by  hundreds  on  a  bee- 
line  for  the  water  hole.  They  shot  as  many  as 
they  needed,  but  no  more,  for  neither  of  them  cared 
to  kill  for  pleasure. 

As  they  rode  back  to  the  ranch,  Curly  mentioned . 
that  he  had  seen  Sam's  people  a  day  or  two  before. 

Cullison  asked  no  questions,  but  he  listened  in 
tently  while  the  other  told  the  story  of  his  first 
rustling  and  of  how  Miss  Kate  and  her  father  had 
stood  by  him  in  his  trouble.  The  dusk  was  set 
tling  over  the  hills  by  this  time,  so  that  they  could 
not  see  each  other's  faces  clearly. 

"If  I  had  folks  like  you  have,  the  salt  of  the 
earth,  and  they  were  worrying  their  hearts  out 
about  me,  seems  to  me  I'd  quit  helling  around  and 
go  back  to  them,"  Curly  concluded. 

"The  old  man  sent  you  to  tell  me  that,  did  he?" 
Hard  and  bitter  came  the  voice  of  the  young  man 
out  of  the  growing  darkness. 

"No,  he  didn't.  He  doesn't  know  I'm  here.  But 
he  and  your  sister  have  done  more  for  me  than  Iy 
ever  can  pay.  That's  why  I'm  telling  you  this."" 

Sam  answered  gruffly,  as  a  man  does  when  he  is 
moved.  "Much  obliged,  Curly,  but  I  reckon  I  can 
look  out  for  myself." 

"Just  what  /  thought,  and  in  September  I  have  to 
91 


CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT 

go  to  the  penitentiary.  Now  I  have  mortgaged  it 
away,  my  liberty  seems  awful  good  to  me." 

"You'll  get  off  likely." 

"Not  a  chance.  They've  got  me  cinched.  But 
with, you  it's  different.  You  haven't  fooled  away 
your  chance  yet.  There's  nothing  to  this  sort  of 
life.  The  bunch  up  here  is  no  good.  Soapy  don't 
mean  right  by  you,  or  by  any  young  fellow  he 
trails  with." 

"I'll  not  listen  to  anything  against  Soapy.  He 
took  me  in  when  my  own  father  turned  against 


me." 


"To  get  back  at  your  father  for  sending  him  up 
the  road." 

"That's  all  right.  He  has  been  a  good  friend  to 
me.  I'm  not  going  to  throw  him  down." 

"Would  it  be  throwing  him  down  to  go  back  to 
your  people?" 

"Yes,  it  would.  We've  got  plans.  Soapy  is  re 
lying  on  me.  No  matter  what  they  are,  but  I'm 
not  going  to  lie  down  on  him.  And  I'm  not  going 
back  to  the  old  man.  He  told  me  he  was  through 
with  me.  Once  is  a-plenty.  I'm  not  begging  him 
to  take  me  back,  not  on  your  life." 

Curly  dropped  the  matter.  To  urge  him  fur 
ther  would  only  make  the  boy  more  set  in  his  de 
cision.  But  as  the  days  passed  he  kept  one  thing 
in  his  mind,  not  to  miss  any  chance  to  win  his 

92 


WAS   THE   MADDEST   MAN   IN   ARIZONA 


Page  y& 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

friendship.  They  rode  together  a  good  deal,  and 
Flandrau  found  that  Sam  liked  to  hear  him  talk 
about  the  Circle  C  and  its  affajrs.  But  often  he 
was  discouraged,  for  he  made  no  progress  in  wean 
ing  him  from  his  loyalty  to  Stone.  The  latter  was 
a  hero  to  him,  and  gradually  he  was  filling  him 
with  wrong  ideas,  encouraging  him  the  while  to 
drink  a  great  deal.  That  the  man  had  some  definite 
purpose  Curly  was  sure.  What  it  was  he  meant 
to  find  out. 

Meanwhile  he  played  his  part  of  a  wild  young 
cow-puncher  ready  for  any  mischief,  but  beneath  his 
obtuse  good  humor  Flandrau  covered  a  vigilant 
wariness.  Soapy  held  all  the  good  cards  now,  but 
if  he  stayed  in  the  game  some  of  them  would  come 
to  him.  Then  he  would  show  Mr.  Stone  whether 
he  would  have  everything  his  own  way. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
A   REHEARSED    QUARREL 

Because  he  could  not  persuade  him  to  join  in 
their  drinking  bouts,  Stone  nicknamed  Curly  the 
good  bad  man. 

"He's  the  prize  tough  in  Arizona,  only  he's  prom 
ised  his  ma  not  to  look  on  the  wine  when  it  is  red," 
Blackwell  sneered. 

Flandrau  smiled  amiably,  and  retorted  as  best  he 
could.  It  was  his  cue  not  to  take  offence  unless 
it  were  necessary. 

It  was  perhaps  on  account  of  this  good  nature 
that  Blackwell  made  a  mistake.  He  picked  on  the 
young  man  to  be  the  butt  of  his  coarse  pleasantries. 
Day  after  day  he  pointed  his  jeers  at  Curly,  who 
continued  to  grin  as  if  he  did  not  care. 

When  the  worm  turned,  it  happened  that  they 
were  all  sitting  on  the  porch.  Curly  was  sewing  a 
broken  stirrup  leather.  Blackwell  had  a  quirt  in 
his  hand,  and  from  time  to  time  flicked  it  at  the- 
back  of  his  victim.  Twice  the  lash  stung,  not  hard, 
but  with  pepper  enough  to  hurt.  Each  time  the 
young  man  asked  him  to  stop. 

Blackwell  snapped  the  quirt  once  too  often. 
94 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

When  he  picked  himself  out  of  the  dust  five  seconds 
later,  he  was  the  maddest  man  in  Arizona.  Like  a 
bull  he  lowered  his  head  and  rushed.  Curly  side 
stepped  and  lashed  out  hard  with  his  left. 

The  convict  whirled,  shook  the  hair  out  of  his 
eyes,  and  charged  again.  It  was  a  sledge-hammer 
bout,  with  no  rules  except  to  hit  the  other  man 
often  and  hard.  Twice  Curly  went  down  from 
chance  blows,  but  each  time  he  rolled  away  and 
got  to  his  feet  before  his  heavy  foe  could  close 
with  him.  Blackwell  had  no  science.  His  arms 
went  like  flails.  Though  by  sheer  strength  he  kept 
Flandrau  backing,  the  latter  hit  cleaner  and  with 
more  punishing  effect. 

Curly  watched  his  chance,  dodged  a  wild  swing, 
and  threw  himself  forward  hard  with  his  shoulder 
against  the  chest  of  the  convict.  The  man  stag 
gered  back,  tripped  on  the  lowest  step  of  the  porch, 
and  went  down  hard.  The  fall  knocked  the  breath 
out  of  him. 

"Had  enough?"  demanded  Curly. 

For  answer  Blackwell  bit  his  thumb  savagely. 

"Since  you  like  it  so  well,  have  another  taste." 
Curly,  now  thoroughly  angry,  sent  a  short-arm  jolt 
to  the  mouth. 

The  man  underneath  tried  to  throw  him  off,  but 
Flandrau's  fingers  found  his  hairy  throat  and  tight- 

95 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

"You're  killing  me,"  the  convict  gasped. 

"Enough?" 

"Y-yes." 

Curly  stepped  back  quickly,  ready  either  for  a 
knife  or  a  gunplay.  Blackwell  got  to  his  feet,  and 
glared  at  him. 

"A  man  is  like  a  watermelon;  you  can't  most 
generally  tell  how  good  he  is  till  you  thump  him/' 
Sam  chuckled. 

Cranston  laughed.  "Curly  was  not  so  ripe  for 
picking  as  you  figured,  Lute.  If  you'd  asked  me, 
I  could  a-told  you  to  put  in  yore  spare  time  letting 
him  alone.  But  a  fellow  has  to  buy  his  own  ex 
perience." 

The  victor  offered  his  hand  to  Blackwell.  "I  had 
a  little  luck.  We'll  call  it  quits  if  you  say  so." 

"I  stumbled  over  the  step,"  the  beaten  man 
snarled. 

"Sure.    I  had  all  the  luck." 

"Looked  to  me  like  you  were  making  yore  own 
luck,  kid,"  Bad  Bill  differed. 

The  paroled  convict  went  into  the  house,  swear 
ing  to  get  even.  His  face  was  livid  with  fury. 

"You  wouldn't  think  a  little  thing  like  a  whaling) 
given  fair  and  square  would  make  a  man  hold  a 
grudge.  My  system  has  absorbed  se-ve-real  with 
out  doing  it  any  harm."  Sam  stooped  to  inspect 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

a  rapidly  discoloring  eye.  "Say,  Curly,  he  hung 
a  peach  of  a  lamp  on  you." 

Soapy  made  no  comment  in  words,  but  he  looked 
at  Flandrau  with  a  new  respect.  For  the  first  time 
a  doubt  as  to  the  wisdom  of  letting  him  stay  at 
the  ranch  crossed  his  mind. 

His  suspicion  was  justified.  Curly  had  been  liv 
ing  on  the  edge  of  a  secret  for  weeks.  Mystery 
was  in  the  air.  More  than  once  he  had  turned  a 
corner  to  find  the  other  four  whispering  over  some 
thing.  The  group  had  disintegrated  at  once  with 
a  casual  indifference  that  did  not  deceive.  Occa 
sionally  a  man  had  ridden  into  the  yard  late  at 
night  for  private  talk  with  Stone,  and  Curly  was 
morally  certain  that  the  man  was  the  little  cow- 
puncher  Dutch  of  the  Circle  C. 

Through  it  all  Curly  wore  a  manner  of  open  con 
fidence.  The  furtive  whisperings  did  not  appear  to 
arouse  his  curiosity,  nor  did  he  intercept  any  of  the 
knowing  looks  that  sometimes  were  exchanged. 
But  all  the  time  his  brain  was  busy  with  questions. 
What  were  they  up  to?  What  was  it  they  had 
planned  ? 

Stone  and  Blackwell  rode  away  one  morning. 
To  Curly  the  word  was  given  that  they  were  going 
to  Mesa.  Four  days  later  Soapy  returned  alone. 
Lute  had  found  a  job,  he  said. 

97 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

"That  a  paper  sticking  out  of  your  pocket?" 
Flandrau  asked. 

Soapy,  still  astride  his  horse,  tossed  the  Saguache 
Sentinel  to  him  as  he  turned  toward  the  stable. 

"Lie  number  one  nailed,"  Curly  said  to  himself. 
"How  came  he  with  a  Saguache  paper  if  he's  been 
to  Mesa?" 

Caught  between  the  folds  of  the  paper  was  a 
raiload  time  table.  It  was  a  schedule  of  the  trains 
of  the  Texas,  Arizona  &  Pacific  for  July.  This 
was  the  twenty-ninth  of  June.  Certainly  Soapy 
had  lost  no  time  getting  the  new  folder  as  soon  as 
it  was  issued.  Why?  He  might  be  going  travel 
ing.  If  so,  what  had  that  to  do  with  the  mystery 
agitating  him  and  his  friends? 

Curly  turned  the  pages  idly  till  a  penciled  mark 
ing  caught  his  eye.  Under  Number  4*5  time  was 
scrawled,  just  below  Saguache,  the  word  Tin  Cup, 
and  opposite  it  the  figures  10:19.  The  express 
was  due  to  leave  Saguache  at  9:57  in  the  evening. 
From  there  it  pushed  up  to  the  divide  and  slid 
down  with  air  brakes  set  to  Tin  Cup  three  thou 
sand  feet  lower.  Soapy  could  not  want  to  catch  the 
*rain  fifteen  miles  the  other  side  of  Saguache.  But 
this  note  on  the  margin  showed  that  he  was  in 
terested  in  the  time  it  reached  the  water  tank. 
There  must  be  a  reason  for  it. 


CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT 

Stone  came  back  hurriedly  from  the  corral,  to 
find  Curly  absorbed  in  the  Sentinel. 

"Seen  anything  of  a  railroad  folder?  I  must 
a-dropped  it." 

"It  was  stuck  in  the  paper.  I  notice  there's  liable 
to  be  trouble  between  Fendrick  and  the  cattle  in 
terests  over  his  sheep,"  the  reader  answered  casu 
ally. 

"Yep.  Between  Fendrick  and  Cullison,  any 
how."  Stone  had  reclaimed  and  pocketed  his  time 
table. 

Incidentally  Flandrau's  doubt  had  been  converted 
into  a  lively  suspicion.  Presently  he  took  a  gun, 
and  strolled  off  to  shoot  birds.  What  he  really 
wanted  was  to  be  alone  so  that  he  could  think  the 
matter  over.  Coming  home  in  the  dusk,  he  saw 
Stone  and  young  Cullison  with  their  heads  together 
down  by  the  corral.  Curious  to  see  how  long  this 
earnest  talk  would  last,  Curly  sat  down  on  a  rock, 
and  watched  them,  himself  unobserved.  They  ap 
peared  to  be  rehearsing  some  kind  of  a  scene,  of 
which  Soapy  was  stage  director. 

The  man  on  the  rock  smiled  grimly.  "They're 
having  a  quarrel,  looks  like.  .  .  .  Now  the 
kid's  telling  Soapy  to  go  to  Guinea,  and  Soapy's 
pawing  around  mad  as  a  bull  moose.  It's  all  a 
play.  They  don't  mean  it.  But  why?  I  reckon 

99 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

this  dress  rehearsal  ain't  for  the  calves  in  the  cor 
ral." 

Curly's  mind  was  so  full  of  guesses  that  his 
poker  was  not  up  to  par  that  night.  About  day 
break  he  began  to  see  his  way  into  the  maze.  His 
first  gleam  of  light  was  when  a  row  started  be 
tween  Soapy  and  Cullison.  Before  anyone  could 
say  a  word  to  stop  them  they  were  going  through 
with  that  identical  corral  quarrel. 

Flandrau  knew  now  they  had  been  preparing 
it  for  his  benefit.  Cranston  chipped  in  against  Samf 
and  to  keep  up  appearances  Curly  backed  the  boy. 
The  quarrel  grew  furious.  At  last  Sam  drove  his 
fist  down  on  the  table  and  said  he  was  through  with 
the  outfit  and  was  going  back  to  Saguache. 

"Yo  tambien"  agreed  Curly.  "Not  that  I've 
got  anything  against  the  horse  ranch.  That  ain't 
it.  But  I'm  sure  pining  for  to  bust  the  bank  at 
Bronson's. 

'Round  and  round  the  little  ball  goes, 
Where  it  will  land  nobody  knows.' 

I've  got  forty  plunks  burning  my  jeans.  I've  got 
to  separate  myself  from  it  or  make  my  roll  a  thou-' 
sand." 

The  end  of  it  was  that  both  Sam  and  Curly  went 
down  to  the  corral  and  saddled  their  ponies.  To 
the  last  the  conspirators  played  up  to  their  parts. 

100 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AXD    STRAIGHT 

"Damned  good  riddance,"  Stone  called  after 
them  as  they  rode  away. 

"When  I  find  out  I'm  doing-  business  with  four- 
flushers,  I  quit  them  cold/'  Sam  called  back 
angrily. 

Curly  was  amused.  He  wanted  to  tell  his  friend 
that  they  had  pulled  off  their  little  play  very  well. 
But  he  did  not. 

Still  according  to  program,  Sam  sulked  for  the 
first  few  miles  of  their  journey.  But  before  they 
reached  the  Bar  99  he  grew  sunny  again. 

"I'm  going  to  have  a  talk  with  Laura  while  I'm 
so  near,"  he  explained. 

"Yes,  that  will  be  fine.  From  the  way  the  old 
man  talked  when  I  was  there,  I  expect  he'll  kill 
the  fatted  yearling  for  you." 

"I  don't  figure  on  including  the  old  man  in  my 
call.  What's  the  use  of  having  a  friend  along  if 
you  don't  use  him?  You  drift  in  ...  just 
happen  along,  you  know.  I'll  stay  in  the  scrub 
pines  up  here.  If  the  old  man  is  absent  scenery, 
you  wave  your  bandanna  real  industrious.  If  he  is 
at  home,  give  Laura  the  tip  and  she'll  know  where 
to  find  me." 

The  owner  of  the  ranch,  as  it  happened,  was  cut 
ting  trail  over  by  Agua  Caliente. 

"Do  you  want  to  see  him  very  bad,  Mr.  Flan- 
drau?"  asked  Miss  Laura  demurely. 

101 


CROOKED    TRAILS   'AND    STRAIGHT      ' 

"My  friends  call  me  Curly." 

"I  meant  to  say  Curly." 

"That's  what  I  thought.  No,  I  can't  say  I've 
lost  Mr.  London." 

"You  inquired  for  him." 

"Hmp!  That's  different.  When  I  used  to  come 
home  from  the  swimming  hole  contrary  to  orders, 
I  used  to  ask  where  Dad  was,  but  I  didn't  want 
to  see  him." 

"I  see.  Did  you  just  come  down  from  the  horse 
ranch?" 

"You've  guessed  it  right." 

"Then  I'm  sorry  I  can't  ask  you  to  'light.  Dad's 
orders." 

"You've  got  lots  of  respect  for  his  orders,  haven't 
you?"  he  derided. 

"Yes,  I  have."  She  could  not  quite  make  up  her 
mind  whether  to  laugh  or  become  indignant. 

"Then  there's  no  use  trying  to  tell  you  the  news 
from  the  ranch." 

A  smile  dimpled  her  cheeks  and  bubbled  in  her 
eyes.  "If  you  should  tell  me,  I  suppose  I  couldn't 
help  hearing." 

"But  I'm  trying  to  figure  out  my  duty.  Maybe 
I  oughtn't  to  tempt  you." 

"While  you're  making  up  your  mind,  I'll  run 
back  into  the  kitchen  and  look  at  the  pies  in  the 


oven." 


102 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

Curly  swung  from  the  saddle,  and  tossed  the 
bridle  rein  to  the  ground.  He  followed  her  into 
the  house.  She  was  taking  an  apple  pie  from  the 
oven,  but  took  time  to  be  saucy  over  her  shoulder. 

"I'm  not  allowed  to  invite  you  into  the  house, 
sir." 

"Anything  in  the  by-laws  about  me  inviting  my 
self  in?" 

"No,  that  wasn't  mentioned." 

"Anything  in  them  about  you  meeting  one  of  the 
lads  from  the  horse  ranch  up  on  the  hillside  where 
it  is  neutral  ground  ?" 

"Did  Sam  come  with  you  ?"  she  cried. 

"Who  said  anything  about  Sam?" 

Glints  of  excitement  danced  in  the  brown  pupils 
of  her  eyes.  "He's  here.  Oh,  I  know  he's  here." 

"What  do  I  get  for  bringing  good  news?" 

"I  didn't  say  it  was  good  news." 

"Sho!    Your  big  eyes  are  shouting  it." 

"Was  that  the  news  from  the  horse  ranch?" 

"That's  part  of  it,  but  there  is  more.  Sam  and 
Curly  are  on  their  way  to  Saguache  to  spend  the 
Fourth  of  July.  Sam  is  going  for  another  reason, 
but  I'm  not  sure  yet  what  it  is." 

"You  mean ?" 

"There's  something  doing  I  don't  savez,  some 
big  deal  on  foot  that's  not  on  the  level.  Sam  is  in 
it  up  to  the  hocks.  To  throw  me  off  the  scent  the/ 

103 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

fixed  up  a  quarrel  among  them.  Sam  is  supposed 
to  be  quitting  Soapy's  outfit  for  good.  But  I  know 
better." 

White  to  the  lips,  she  faced  him  bravely.  "What 
sort  of  trouble  is  he  leading  Sam  into?" 

"I've  got  a  kind  of  a  notion.  But  it  won't  bear 
talking  about  yet.  Don't  you  worry,  little  girl. 
I'm  going  to  stand  by  Sam.  And  don't  tell  him 
what  I've  told  you,  unless  you  want  to  spoil  my 
chance  of  helping  him." 

"I  won't,"  she  promised;  then  added,  with  quick 
eagerness:  "Maybe  I  can  help  you.  I'm  going 
down  to  Saguache  to  visit  on  the  fourth.  I'm  to 
be  there  two  weeks." 

"I'll  look  you  up.  Trouble  is  that  Sam  is  hell 
bent  on  ruining  himself.  Seems  to  think  Soapy  is 
his  best  friend.  If  we  could  show  him  different 
things  might  work  out  all  right." 

While  she  climbed  the  hill  to  Sam,  Curly  watered 
his  horse  and  smoked  a  cigarette.  He  was  not  hired 
to  chaperone  lovers.  Therefore,  it  took  him  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour  to  reach  the  scrub  pine  belt  on 
the  edge  of  the  park. 

At  once  he  saw  that  they  had  been  having  a 
quarrel.  The  girl's  eyes  were  red,  and  she  was 
still  dabbing  at  them  with  her  handkerchief  when 
he  came  whistling  along.  Sam  looked  discouraged, 

104 


CROOKED    TRAILS   'AND    STRAIGHT 

but  stubborn.    Very  plainly  they  had  been  disagree 
ing  about  his  line  of  conduct. 

The  two  young  men  took  the  trail  again.  The 
moroseness  of  Sam  was  real  and  not  affected  this 
time.  He  had  flared  up  because  the  girl  could  not 
let  him  alone  about  his  friendship  for  Soapy  Stone. 
In  his  heart  the  boy  knew  he  was  wrong,  that  he 
was  moving  fast  in  the  wrong  direction.  But  his 
pride  would  neither  let  him  confess  it  or  go  back 
on  his  word  to  the  men  with  whom  he  had  been 
living. 

About  noon  the  next  day  they  reached  Saguache. 
After  they  had  eaten,  Curly  strolled  off  by  himself 
to  the  depot. 

"Gimme  a  ticket  to  Tin  Cup  for  this  evening.  I 
want  to  go  by  the  express,"  he  told  the  agent. 

The  man  looked  at  him  and  grinned.  "I  saw 
you  at  Mesa  in  the  bucking  broncho  doings  last 
year,  didn't  I?" 

"Maybe  you  did  and  maybe  you  didn't.     Why?" 

"You  certainly  stay  with  the  bad  bronchs  to  a 
fare-you-well.  If  I'd  been  judge  you'd  a-had  first 
place,  Mr.  Flandrau." 

"Much  obliged.  And  now  you've  identified  men 
sufficient,  how  about  that  ticket?" 

"I  was  coming  to  that.  Sure  you  can  get  a 
ticket.  Good  on  any  train.  You're  so  darned  ac- 

105 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

live,  maybe  you  could  get  off  Number  4  when  she 
is  fogging  along  sixty  miles  per.  But  most  folks 
couldn't,  not  with  any  comfort." 

"Meaning  that  the  Flyer  doesn't  stop?" 

"Not  at  Tin  Cup." 

"Have  to  take  the  afternoon  train  then?" 

"I  reckon."  He  punched  a  ticket  and  shoved  it 
through  the  window  toward  Curly.  "Sixty-five 
cents,  please." 

Flandrau  paid  for  and  pocketed  the  ticket  he 
did  not  intend  to  use.  He  had  found  out  what  he 
wanted  to  know.  The  express  did  not  stop  at  Tin 
Cup.  Why,  then,  had  Soapy  marked  the  time  of 
its  arrival  there?  He  was  beginning  to  guess  the 
reason.  But  he  would  have  to  do  more  than 
guess. 

Curly  walked  back  to  the  business  section  from 
the  depot.  Already  the  town  was  gay  with  banners 
in  preparation  for  the  Fourth.  On  the  program 
were  broncho-busting,  roping,  Indian  dances,  races, 
and  other  frontier  events.  Already  visitors  were 
gathering  for  the  festivities.  Saguache,  wide  open 
for  the  occasion,  was  already  brisk  with  an  as 
sorted  population  of  many  races.  Mexicans,  Chi 
nese,  Indians  of  various  tribes  brushed  shoulders 
with  miners,  tourists  and  cattlemen.  Inside  the  sa 
loons  faro,  chuckaluck  and  roulette  attracted  each 
its  devotees. 

106 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

Flandrau  sauntered  back  to  the  hotel  on  the  look 
out  for  Sam.  He  was  not  there,  but  waiting  for 
him  was  a  boy  with  a  note  for  the  gentleman  in 
,  Number  311. 

"Kid  looking  for  you,"  the  clerk  called  to  the 
cow-puncher. 

"Are  you  Mr.  Soapy  Stone's  friend,  the  one  just 
down  from  Dead  Cow  creek?"  asked  the  boy. 

Taken  as  a  whole,  the  answer  was  open  to  de 
bate.  But  Curly  nodded  and  took  the  note. 

This  was  what  he  read : 

Sam,  come  to  Chalkeye's  place  soon  as 
you  get  this.  There  we  will  talk  over  the 
business. 

You  KNOW  WHO. 

Though  he  did  not  know  who,  Curly  thought  he 
could  give  a  pretty  good  guess  both  as  to  the  au 
thor  and  the  business  that  needed  talking  over. 

Through  the  open  door  of  the  hotel  he  saw  Sam 
approaching.  Quickly  he  sealed  the  flap  of  the  en 
velope  again,  and  held  it  pressed  against  his  fin 
gers  while  he  waited. 

"A  letter  for  you,  Sam." 

Cullison  tore  open  the  envelope  and  read  the 
note. 

"A  friend  of  mine  has  come  to  town  and  wants 
to  see  me,"  he  explained. 

107 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

To  help  out  his  bluff,  Curly  sprang  the  feeble 
minded  jest  on  him.  "Blonde  or  brunette?" 

"I'm  no  lady's  man,"  Sam  protested,  content  to 
let  the  other  follow  a  wrong  scent. 

"Sure  not.  It  never  is  a  lady,"  Flandrau  called 
after  him  as  he  departed. 

But  Sam  had  no  more  than  turned  the  corner 
before  Curly  was  out  of  a  side  door  and  cutting 
through  an  alley  toward  Chalkeye's  place.  Reach 
ing  the  back  door  of  the  saloon,  he  opened  it  a  few 
inches  and  peered  in.  A  minute  later  Sam  opened 
the  front  screen  and  asked  a  question  of  the  man 
in  the  apron.  The  bartender  gave  a  jerk  of  his 
thumb.  Sam  walked  toward  the  rear  and  turned 
in  at  the  second  private  booth. 

Curly  slipped  forward  quietly,  and  passed  unob 
served  into  the  third  stall.  The  wall  which  di 
vided  one  room  from  another  was  of  pine  boarding 
and  did  not  reach  the  ceiling.  As  the  eavesdropper 
slid  to  a  seat  a  phonograph  in  front  began  the  Merry 
Widow  waltz.  Noiselessly  Flandrau  stood  on  the 
cushioned  bench  with  his  ear  close  to  the  top  of 
the  dividing  wall.  He  could  hear  a  murmur  of 
voices  but  could  not  make  out  a  word.  The  record 
on  the  instrument  wheezed  to  silence,  but  imme 
diately  a  rag-time  tune  followed. 

Presently  the  music  died  away.  Flattened  against 
108 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

the  wall,  his  attention  strained  to  the  utmost,  Curly 
began  to  catch  words  and  phrases  of  the  low- voiced 
speakers  in  the  next  compartment.  His  position 
was  perilous  in  the  extreme,  but  he  would  not  leave 
now  until  he  had  found  out  what  he  wanted  to 
know. 


109 


CHAPTER  IX 
EAVESDROPPING 

Out  of  the  murmur  of  voices  came  one  that  Curly 
recognized  as  that  of  Soapy  Stone,  alias  You  Know 
Who. 

" then  you'll  take  the  9 157,  Sam " 

After  more  whispering,  "Yep,  soon  as  you  hear 
the  first  shot cover  the  passengers " 

The  listener  lost  what  followed.  Once  he  thought 
he  heard  the  name  Tin  Cup,  but  he  could  not  be 
sure.  Presently  another  fragment  drifted  to  him. 
" make  our  getaway  and  cache  the  plunder 


The  phonograph  lifted  up  its  voice  again.  This 
time  it  was  "I  love  a  lassie."  Before  the  song  was 
finished  there  came  the  sound  of  shuffling  feet.  One 
of  the  men  in  the  next  stall  was  leaving.  Curly 
could  not  tell  which  one,  nor  did  he  dare  look  over 
the  top  of  the  partition  to  find  out.  He  was  play 
ing  safe.  This  adventure  had  caught  him  so  un 
expectedly  that  he  had  not  found  time  to  run  back 
to  his  room  for  his  six-gun.  What  would  happen 
to  him  if  he  were  caught  listening  was  not  a  matter 

no 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

of  doubt  Soapy  would  pump  lead  into  him  till  he 
quit  kicking,  slap  a  saddle  on  a  broncho,  and  light 
out  for  the  Sonora  line. 

As  the  phonograph  finished  unexpectedly — some 
one  had  evidently  interrupted  the  record — the  frag 
ment  of  a  sentence  seemed  to  jump  at  Curly. 

" so  the  kid  will  get  his  in  the  row." 

It  was  the  voice  of  Soapy,  raised  slightly  to  make 
itself  heard  above  the  music. 

"Take  care,"  another  voice  replied,  and  Flandrau 
would  have  sworn  that  this  belonged  to  Blackwell. 

Stone,  who  had  been  sitting  on  the  other  side  of 
the  table,  moved  close  to  the  paroled  convict.  Be 
tween  him  and  Curly  there  was  only  the  thickness 
of  a  plank.  The  young  man  was  afraid  that  the 
knocking  of  his  heart  could  be  heard. 

" don't  like  it,"  Blackwell  was  objecting 

sullenly. 

"Makes  it  safe  for  us.  Besides" — Stone's  voice 
grated  like  steel  rasping  steel,  every  word  distinct 
though  very  low — "I  swore  to  pay  off  Luck  Culli- 
son,  and  by  God !  I'm  going  to  do  it." 

"Someone  will  hear  you  if  you  ain't  careful,"  the 
convict  protested  anxiously. 

"Don't  be  an  old  woman,  Lute." 

"...,,.  if  you  can  do  it  safe.  I  owe  Luck  CuUi- 
son  much  as  you  do,  but " 

Again  they  fell  to  whispers.  The  next  word  that 
in 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

came  to  Curly  clearly  was  his  own  name.  But  it 
was  quite  a  minute  before  he  gathered  what  they 
were  saying.  . 

"Luck  Cullison  went  his  bail.  I  learnt  it  this 
mo'ning." 

"The  son-of-a-gun.  It's  a  cinch  he's  a  spy.  And 
me  wanting  you  to  let  him  in  so's  he  could  hold 
the  sack  instead  of  Sam." 

"Knew  it  wouldn't  do,  Lute.  He's  smart  as  a 
whip." 

"Reckon  he  knows  anything?*' 

"No.     Can't." 

"If  I  thought  he  did " 

"Keep  your  shirt  on,  Lute.  He  don't  know  a 
thing.  And  you  get  revenge  on  him  all  right.  Sam 
will  run  with  him  and  his  friends  while  he's  here. 
Consequence  is,  when  they  find  the  kid  where  we 
leave  him  they'll  sure  guess  Curly  for  one  of  his 
pardners.  Tell  you  his  ticket  is  good  as  bought 
to  Yuma.  He's  a  horse  thief.  Why  shouldn't  he 
be  a  train  robber,  too.  That's  how  a  jury  will 
argue." 

Blackwell  grumbled  something  under  his  breath. 

Stone's  voice  grated  harshly.  "Me  too.  If  he 
crosses  my  trail  I'm  liable  to  spoil  his  hide  before 
court  meets.  No  man  alive  can  play  me  for  a  sucker 
and  throw  me  down.  Not  Soapy  Stone." 

Once  more  the  voices  ran  together  indistinctly. 
112 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

It  was  not  till  Blackwell  suggested  that  they  go 
get  a  drink  that  Curly  understood  anything  more 
of  what  was  being  said. 

The  outlaws  passed  out  of  the  little  room  and 
strolled  forward  to  the  bar. 

Curly  had  heard  more  than  he  had  expected  to. 
Moreover,  as  he  congratulated  himself,  his  luck  had 
stood  up  fine.  Nobody  in  the  sunburnt  territory 
felt  happier  than  he  did  that  minute  when  he  struck 
the  good  fresh  air  of  the  alley  and  knew  that  he 
had  won  through  his  hazardous  adventure  alive. 

The  first  thing  that  Flandrau  did  was  to  walk 
toward  the  outskirts  of  the  town  where  he  could 
think  it  out  by  himself.  But  in  this  little  old  planet 
events  do  not  always  occur  as  a  man  plans  them. 
Before  he  reached  Arroyo  street  Curly  came  plump 
against  his  old  range-mate  Slats  Davis. 

The  assistant  foreman  of  the  Hashknife  nodded 
as  he  passed.  He  had  helped  Curly  escape  less  than 
a  month  before,  but  he  did  not  intend  to  stay  friendly 
with  a  rustler. 

Flandrau  caught  him  by  the  arm.  "Hello,  Slats. 
You're  the  man  I  want." 

"I'm  pretty  busy  to-day,"  Davis  answered  stiffly. 

"Forget  it     This  is  more  important." 

"Well?" 

"Come  along  and  take  a  walk.  I  got  something 
to  tell  you." 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

"Can't  you  tell  it  here  ?" 

"I  ain't  going  to,  anyhow.  Come  along.  I  ain't 
got  smallpox." 

Reluctantly  Davis  fell  in  beside  him.  "All  right. 
Cut  it  short.  I've  got  to  see  a  man." 

"He'll  have  to  wait."  Curly  could  not  help  chuck 
ling  to  himself  at  the  evident  embarrassment  of  the 
other.  The  impish  impulse  to  "devil"  him  had  its 
way.  "You're  a  man  of  experience,  Slats.  Ever 
hold  up  a  train?" 

The  foreman  showed  plainly  his  disgust  at  this 
foolishness.  "Haven't  you  sense  enough  ever  to 
be  serious,  Curly?  You're  not  a  kid  any  more.  In 
age  you're  a  grown  man.  But  how  do  you  act? 
Talk  like  that  don't  do  you  any  good.  You're  in 
trouble  good  and  deep.  Folks  have  got  their  eyes 
on  you.  Now  is  the  time  to  show  them  you  have 
quit  all  that  hell  raising  you  have  been  so  busy 
at." 

"He  sure  is  going  good  this  mo'ning,"  Curly 
drawled  confidentially  to  the  scenery.  "You  would 
never  guess,  would  you,  that  him  and  me  had  raised 
that  crop  in  couples?" 

"That's  all  right,  too.  I'm  no  sky  pilot.  But  I 
know  when  to  quit.  Seemingly  you  don't.  I  hear 
you've  been  up  at  Stone's  horse  ranch.  I  want  to 
tell  you  that  won't  do  you  any  good  if  it  gets  out" 

114 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

"Never  was  satisfied  till  I  had  rounded  up  all 
the  trouble  in  sight.  That's  why  I  mentioned  this 
train  robbery.  Some  of  my  friends  are  aiming  to 
hold  up  one  shortly.  If  you'd  like  to  get  in  I'll 
say  a  good  word  for  you." 

Davis  threw  at  him  a  look  that  drenched  like  ice 
water.  "I  expect  you  and  me  are  traveling  differ 
ent  trails  these  days,  Curly.  You  don't  mean  it 
of  course,  but  the  point  is  I'm  not  going  to  joke 
with  you  along  that  line.  Understand  ?" 

"Wrong  guess,  old  hoss.    I  do  mean  it." 

Davis  stopped  in  his  tracks.  "Then  you've  said 
too  much  to  me.  We'll  part  right  here." 

"It  takes  two  to  agree  to  that,  Slats." 

"That's  where  you're  wrong.  One  is  enough. 
We  used  to  be  good  friends,  but  those  days  are 
past.  None  of  us  can  keep  a  man  from  being  a 
durned  fool  if  he  wants  to  be  one.  Nor  a  scoundrel. 
You've  got  the  bit  in  your  teeth  and  I  reckon  you'll 
go  till  there  is  a  smash.  But  you  better  understand 
this.  When  you  choose  Soapy  Stone's  crowd  to 
run  with  that  cuts  out  me  and  other  decent  folks. 
If  they  have  sent  you  here  to  get  me  mixed  up  in 
their  deviltry  you  go  back  and  tell  them  there's 
nothing  doing." 

"Won't  have  a  thing  to  do  with  them.  Is  that 
it?" 

"5 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

"Not  till  the  call  comes  for  citizens  to  get  to 
gether  and  run  them  out  of  the  country.  Or  to  put 
them  behind  bars.  Or  to  string  them  to  a  cotton- 
wood.  Then  I'll  be  on  the  job." 

He  stood  there  quiet  and  easy,  the  look  in  his 
steady  eyes  piercing  Curly's  ironic  smile  as  a  sum 
mer  sun  does  mackerel  clouds  in  a  clear  sky.  Not 
many  men  would  have  had  the  courage  to  send 
that  message  to  Soapy  and  his  outfit.  For  Stone 
was  not  only  a  man  killer,  but  a  mean  one  at  that 
Since  he  had  come  back  from  the  penitentiary  he 
had  been  lying  pretty  low,  but  he  brought  down 
from  the  old  days  a  record  that  chilled  the  blood. 

Curly  sloughed  his  foolishness  and  came  to  the 
point. 

"You're  on,  Slats.  I'm  making  that  call  to  you 
now." 

The  eyes  of  the  two  men  fastened.  Those  of 
Flandrau  had  quit  dancing  and  were  steady  as  the 
sun  in  a  blue  sky.  Surprise,  doubt,  wonder,  relief 
filled  in  turn  the  face  of  the  other  man, 

"I'm  listening,  Curly." 

His  friend  told  him  the  whole  story  from  the 
beginning,  just  as  he  had  been  used  to  do  in  the 
old  days.  And  Davis  heard  it  without  a  word,' 
taking  the  tale  in  quietly  with  a  grim  look  settling 
on  his  face. 

116 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

"So  he  aims  to  play  traitor  to  young  Cullison. 
The  thing  is  damnable/' 

"He  means  to  shut  Sam's  mouth  for  good  and 
all.  That  is  what  he  has  been  playing  for  from 
the  start,  to  get  even  with  Luck.  He  and  his  gang 
will  get  away  with  the  haul  and  they  will  leave  Sam 
dead  on  the  scene  of  the  hold-up.  There  will  be 
some  shooting,  and  it  will  be  figured  the  boy  was 
hit  by  one  of  the  train  crew.  Nothing  could  be 
easier." 

"If  it  worked  out  right." 

"Couldn't  help  working  out  right.  That's  why 
Soapy  didn't  let  me  in  on  the  proposition.  To  get 
rid  of  one  would  be  no  great  trouble,  but  two — 
well,  that's  different.  Besides,  I  could  tell  he  was 
not  sure  of  me.  Now  he  aims  to  put  me  on  the 
stand  and  prove  by  me  that  Sam  and  he  had  a 
quarrel  and  parted  company  mighty  sore  at  each 
other  hardly  a  week  before  the  hold-up.  He'll  have 
an  alibi  too  to  show  he  couldn't  have  been  in  it. 
You'll  see." 

"You  wouldn't  think  a  white  man  could  take  a 
revenge  like  that  on  his  enemy.  It's  an  awful  thing 
to  do  in  cold  blood." 

"Soapy  is  no  white  man.  He's  a  wolf.  See  how 
slick  his  scheme  is.  At  one  flip  of  the  cards  he  kills 
the  kid  and  damns  his  reputation.  He  scores  Culli- 

117 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

son  and  he  snuffs  out  Sam,  who  had  had  the  luck 
to  win  the  girl  Soapy  fancies.  The  boy  gets  his 
and  the  girl  is  shown  she  can't  love  another  man 
than  Stone." 

"Ever  hear  the  story  of  French  Dan?"  asked 
Slats. 

"Not  to  know  the  right  of  it." 

"Soapy  and  Dan  trained  together  in  them  days 
and  went  through  a  lot  of  meanness  as  side  pard- 
ners.  One  day  the  Arivaca  stage  was  held  up  by 
two  men  and  the  driver  killed.  In  the  scrap  one 
of  the  men  had  his  mask  torn  off.  It  was  French 
Dan.  Well,  the  outlaws  had  been  too  damned  busy. 
Folks  woke  up  and  the  hills  were  sprinkled  with 
posses.  They  ran  the  fellows  down  and  hunted 
them  from  place  to  place.  Two — three  times  they 
almost  nailed  them.  Shots  were  exchanged.  A 
horse  of  one  of  the  fugitives  was  killed  and  they 
could  not  get  another.  Finally  one  dark  night  the 
outlaws  were  surrounded.  The  posse  lay  down  in 
the  zacaton  and  waited  for  morning.  In  the  night 
one  of  them  heard  a  faint  sound  like  the  popping 
of  a  cork.  When  mo'ning  broke  the  hunters  crept 
forward  through  the  thick  grass.  Guess  what  they 
found" 

Curly's  answer  was  prompt.  "Gimme  a  harder 
one.  There  were  two  men  and  only  one  horse.  The 
only  chance  was  to  slip  through  the  line  before  day 

118 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND   STRAIGHT 

arrived.  My  guess  is  that  they  found  French  Dan 
with  a  little  round  hole  in  his  skull — and  that  the 
bullet  making  it  had  gone  in  from  behind.  My 
guess  also  is  that  the  posse  didn't  find  the  horse 
and  the  other  man,  just  a  trail  through  the  zacaton 
back  into  the  hills." 

"Go  to  the  head  of  the  class.  There  was  one 
man  too  many  in  that  thicket  for  the  horse.  French 
Dan's  pardner  was  afraid  they  might  not  agree 
about  who  was  to  have  the  bronch  for  a  swift  get 
away.  So  he  took  no  chances.  There's  only  one 
man  alive  to-day  can  swear  that  Soapy  was  the 
man  with  French  Dan  lying  in  the  zacaton.  And 
he'll  never  tell,  because  he  pumped  the  bullet  into 
his  friend.  But  one  thing  is  sure.  Soapy  disap 
peared  from  Arizona  for  nearly  two  years.  You 
can  pick  any  reason  you  like  for  his  going.  That  is 
the  one  I  choose." 

"Same  here.  And  the  man  that  would  shoot  one 
partner  in  the  back  would  shoot  another  if  he  had 
good  reasons.  By  his  way  of  it  Soapy  has  reasons 
a-plenty." 

"I'm  satisfied  that  is  his  game.  Question  is  how 
to  block  it.  Will  you  go  to  the  sheriff?" 

"No.  Bolt  would  fall  down  on  it.  First  off,  he 
would  not  believe  the  story  because  I'm  a  rustler 
myself.  Soapy  and  his  friends  voted  for  Bolt.  He 
would  go  to  them,  listen  to  their  story,  prove  part 

119 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

of  it  by  me,  and  turn  them  loose  for  lack  of  evi 
dence.  Sam  would  go  back  to  Dead  Cow  with 
them,  and  Stone  would  weave  another  web  for  the 
kid." 

"You've  got  it  about  right,"  Slats  admitted. 
"How  about  warning  Sam?" 

"No  use.  He  would  go  straight  to  Soapy  with 
it,  and  his  dear  friend  would  persuade  him  it  was 
just  a  yarn  cooked  up  to  get  him  to  throw  down 
the  only  genuwine  straight-up  pal  he  ever  had." 

"Cullison  then?" 

"You're  getting  warm.  I've  had  that  notion  my 
self.  The  point  is,  would  he  be  willing  to  wait 
and  let  Soapy  play  his  hand  out  till  we  called?" 

"You  would  have  to  guarantee  his  boy  would  be 
safe  meanwhile." 

"Two  of  us  would  have  to  watch  him  day  and 
night  without  Sam  knowing  it." 

"Count  me  in." 

"This  is  where  we  hit  heavy  traveling,  Slats. 
For  we  don't  know  when  the  thing  is  going  to  be 
pulled  off." 

"We'll  have  to  be  ready.    That's  all." 

"Happen  to  know  whether  Dick  Maloney  is  here 
for  the  show?" 

"Saw  him  this  mo'ning.  Luck  is  here  too,  him 
and  his  girl." 

"Good.  We've  got  to  have  a  talk  with  them, 
1 20 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND   STRAIGHT 

and  it  has  to  be  on  the  q.t  You  go  back  to  town 
and  find  Dick  Tell  him  to  meet  us  at  the  Del 
Mar,  where  Luck  always  puts  up.  Find  out  the 
number  of  Cullison's  room  and  make  an  appoint 
ment.  I'll  be  on  El  Molino  street  all  mo'ning  off 
and  on.  When  you  find  out  pass  me  without  stop 
ping,  but  tell  me  when  we  are  to  meet  and  just 
where." 

Curly  gave  Slats  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before 
sauntering  back  to  town.  As  he  was  passing  the 
Silver  Dollar  saloon  a  voice  called  him.  Stone  and 
Blackwell  were  standing  in  the  door.  Flandrau 
stopped. 

Soapy's  deep-set  eyes  blazed  at  him.  "You  didn't 
tell  me  it  was  Luck  Cullison  went  bail  for  you, 
Curly." 

"You  didn't  ask  me." 

"So  you  and  him  are  thick,  are  you?" 

"I've  met  him  once,  if  that's  being  thick.  That 
time  I  shot  him  up." 

"Funny.    And  then  he  went  bail  for  you." 

"Yes." 

"Now  I  wonder  why." 

The  eyes  of  the  man  had  narrowed  to  red  slits^ 
His  head  had  shot  forward  on  his  shoulders  as 
that  of  a  snake  does.  Curly  would  have  given  a 
good  deal  just  then  for  the  revolver  lying  on  the 
bed  of  his  room.  For  it  was  plain  trouble  was 

121 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

in  sight.     The  desperado  had  been  drinking  heavily 
and  was  ready  to  do  murder. 

"That's  easy  to  explain,  Soapy.  I  shot  him  be 
cause  I  was  driven  to  it.  He's  too  much  of  a  man 
to  bear  a  grudge  for  what  I  couldn't  help." 

"That's  it,  is  it?  Does  that  explain  why  he  dug 
tip  good  money  to  turn  loose  a  horse  thief?" 

"If  I  told  you  why,  you  would  not  understand." 

"Let's  hear  you  try." 

"He  did  it  because  I  was  young,  just  as  Sam  is; 
and  because  he  figured  that  some  day  Sam  might 
need  a  friend,  too." 

"You're  a  liar.  He  did  it  because  you  promised 
to  sneak  up  to  my  ranch  and  spy  on  us.  That's  why 
he  did  it." 

With  the  last  word  his  gun  jumped  into  sight. 
That  he  was  lashing  himself  into  a  fury  was  plain. 
Presently  his  rage  would  end  in  a  tragedy. 

Given  a  chance,  Curly  would  have  run  for  it. 
But  Soapy  was  a  dead  shot.  Of  a  sudden  the  anger 
in  the  boy  boiled  up  over  the  fear.  In  two  jumps 
he  covered  the  ground  and  jammed  his  face  close 
to  the  cold  rim  of  the  blue  steel  barrel. 
,  "I'm  not  heeled.  Shoot  and  be  damned,  you 
coward.  And  with  my  last  breath  I'll  tell  you  that 
you're  a  liar." 

Flandrau  had  called  his  bluff,  though  he  had  not 
meant  it  as  one.  A  dozen  men  were  in  sight  and 

122 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

were  watching.  They  had  heard  the  young  man 
tell  Stone  he  was  not  armed.  Public  opinion  would 
hold  him  to  account  if  he  shot  Curly  down  in  cold 
blood.  He  hung  there  undecided,  breathing  fast, 
his  jaw  clamped  tightly. 

The  lad  hammered  home  his  defiance.  "Drop 
that  gun,  you  four-flusher,  and  I'll  whale  you  till 
you  can't  stand.  Sabef  Call  yourself  a  bad  man, 
do  you?  Time  I'm  through  with  you  there  will 
be  one  tame  wolf  crawling  back  to  Dead  Cow  with 
its  tail  between  its  legs." 

The  taunt  diverted  his  mind,  just  as  Curly  had 
hoped  it  would.  He  thrust  the  revolver  back  into 
the  holster  and  reached  for  his  foe. 

Then  everybody,  hitherto  paralyzed  by  the  sight 
of  a  deadly  weapon,  woke  up  and  took  a  hand. 
They  dragged  the  two  men  apart.  Curly  was  thrust 
into  a  barber  shop  on  the  other  side  of  the  street 
and  Stone  was  dragged  back  into  the  Silver  Dollar. 

In  two  minutes  Flandrau  had  made  himself 
famous,  for  he  was  a  marked  man.  The  last  words 
of  the  struggling  desperado  had  been  that  he  would 
shoot  on  sight.  Now  half  a  dozen  talked  at  once. 
Some  advised  Curly  one  thing,  some  another.  He 
must  get  out  of  town.  He  must  apologize  at  once 
to  Stone.  He  must  send  a  friend  and  explain. 

The  young  man  laughed  grimly.  "Explain  noth 
ing.  I've  done  all  the  explaining  I'm  going  to. 

123 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

And  1*11  not  leave  town  either.  If  Soapy  wants 
me  he'll  sure  find  me." 

"Don't  be  foolish,  kid.  He  has  got  four  notches 
on  that  gun  of  his.  And  he's  a  dead  shot." 

The  tongues  of  those  about  him  galloped.  Soapy 
was  one  of  these  Billy-the-Kid  killers,  the  only  one 
left  from  the  old  days.  He  could  whang  away  at 
a  quarter  with  that  sawed-off  .45  of  his  and  hit  it 
every  crack.  The  sooner  Curly  understood  that  no 
boy  would  have  a  chance  with  him  the  better  it 
would  be.  So  the  talk  ran. 

"He's  got  you  bluffed  to  a  fare-you-well.  You're 
tame  enough  to  eat  out  of  his  hand.  Didn't  Luck 
Cullison  go  into  the  hills  and  bring  him  down  all 
alone?"  Flandrau  demanded. 

"Luck's  another  wonder.  There  ain't  another 
man  in  Arizona  could  have  done  it.  Leastways  no 
other  but  Bucky  O'Connor." 

But  Curly  was  excited,  pleased  with  himself  be 
cause  he  had  stood  up  to  the  bogey  man  of  the 
Southwest,  and  too  full  of  strength  to  be  afraid. 

Maloney  came  into  the  barber  shop  and  grinned 
at  him. 

"Hello,  son!" 

"Hello,  Dick!" 

"I  hear  you  and  Soapy  are  figuring  on  setting 
off  some  fireworks  this  Fourth." 

It  did  Curly  good  to  see  him  standing  there  so 
124 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

easy  and  deliberate  among  the  excitable  town  people. 

"Soapy  is  doing  the  talking." 

"I  heard  him ;  happened  to  be  at  the  Silver  Dollar 
when  they  dragged  him  in." 

Maloney's  eyebrows  moved  the  least  bit.  His 
friend  understood.  Together  they  passed  out  of  the 
back  door  of  the  shop  into  an  alley.  The  others 
stood  back  and  let  them  go.  But  their  eyes  did 
not  leave  Curly  so  long  as  he  was  in  sight.  Until 
this  thing  was  settled  one  way  or  the  other  the 
young  rustler  would  be  one  of  the  most  important 
men  in  town.  Citizens  would  defer  to  him  that 
had  never  noticed  him  before.  He  carried  with 
him  a  touch  of  the  solemnity  that  is  allowed  only 
the  dead  or  the  dying. 

Back  to  the  hotel  the  two  ran.  When  Curly 
buckled  on  his  revolver  and  felt  it  resting  com 
fortably  against  his  thigh  he  felt  a  good  deal  better. 

"I've  seen  Slats  Davis/'  Maloney  explained.  "He 
has  gone  to  find  Luck,  who  is  now  at  the  Del  Mar. 
At  least  he  was  an  hour  ago." 

"Had  any  talk  with  Slats?" 

"No.     He  said  you'd  do  the  talking." 
/   "I'm  to  wait  for  him  on  El  Molino  street  to  learn 
where  I'm  to  meet  Cullison." 

"That  won't  do.  You'd  make  too  tempting'  a 
target.  I'll  meet  him  instead." 

That  suited  Curly.    He  was  not  hunting  trouble 
125 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND   STRAIGHT 

just  now,  even  though  he  would  not  run  away  from 
it.  For  he  had  serious  business  on  hand  that  could 
not  take  care  of  itself  if  Soapy  should  kill  him. 

Nearly  an  hour  later  Maloney  appeared  again. 

"We're  to  go  right  over  to  the  Del  Mar.  Second 
floor,  room  217.  You  are  to  go  down  El  Molino  to 
Main,  then  follow  it  to  the  hotel,  keeping  on  the 
right  hand  side  of  the  street.  Slats  will  happen 
along  the  other  side  of  the  street  and  will  keep 
abreast  of  you.  Luck  will  walk  with  me  behind 
you.  Unless  I  yell  your  name  don't  pay  any  atten 
tion  to  what  is  behind  you.  Soon  as  we  reach  the 
hotel  Slats  will  cross  the  road  and  go  in  by  the 
side  door.  You  will  follow  him  a  few  steps  behind, 
and  we'll  bring  up  the  rear  casually  as  if  we  hadn't 
a  thing  to  do  with  you." 

"You're  taking  a  heap  of  pains,  seems  to  me." 

"Want  to  keep  you  from  getting  spoilt  till  Sep 
tember  term  of  court  opens.  Didn't  I  promise  Bolt 
you  would  show  up?" 

They  moved  down  the  street  as  arranged.  Every 
time  a  door  opened  in  front  of  him,  every  time  a 
man  came  out  of  a  store  or  a  saloon,  Curly  was 
ready  for  that  lightning  lift  of  the  arm  followed 
by  a  puff  of  smoke.  The  news  of  his  coming  passed 
ahead  of  him,  so  that  windows  were  crowded  with 
spectators.  These  were  doomed  to  disappointment 

126 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

Nothing  happened.  The  procession  left  behind  it 
the  Silver  Dollar,  the  Last  Chance,  Chalkeye's  Place 
and  Pete's  Palace. 

Reaching  the  hotel  first,  Davis  disappeared  ac 
cording  to  program  into  the  side  door.  Curly  fol 
lowed,  walked  directly  up  the  stairs,  along  the  cor 
ridor,  and  passed  without  knocking  into  Room  217. 

A  young  woman  was  sitting  there  engaged  with 
some  fancy  work.  Slender  and  straight,  Kate  Culli- 
son  rose  and  gave  Curly  her  hand.  For  about  two 
heartbeats  her  fingers  lay  cuddled  in  his  big  fist. 
A  strange  stifling  emotion  took  his  breath. 

Then  her  arm  fell  to  her  side  and  she  was  speak 
ing  to  him. 

"Dad  has  gone  to  meet  you.  We've  heard  about 
what  happened  this  morning." 

"You  mean  what  didn't  happen.  Beats  all  how 
far  a  little  excitement  goes  in  this  town,"  he  an 
swered,  embarrassed. 

Her  father  and  Maloney  entered  the  room.  Cul- 
lison  wrung  his  hand. 

"Glad  to  see  you,  boy.  You're  in  luck  that  con 
vict  did  not  shoot  you  up  while  he  had  the  chance. 
Saguache  is  sure  buzzing  this  mo'ning  with  the  way 
you  stood  up  to  him.  That  little  play  of  yours  will 
help  with  the  jury  in  September." 

Curly  thanked  him  for  going  bail. 
127 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

Luck  fixed  his  steel-spoked  eyes  on  him.  "By 
what  Dick  tells  me  you've  more  than  squared  that 
account." 

Kate  explained  in  her  soft  voice.  "Dick  told  us 
why  you  went  up  to  Dead  Cow  creek." 

"Sho!  I  hadn't  a  thing  to  dor  so  I  just  ran 
up  there.  Sam's  in  town  with  me.  We're  rooming 
together." 

"Oh,  take  me  to  him,"  Kate  cried. 

"Not  just  now,  honey,"  her  father  said  gently. 
"This  young  man  came  here  to  tell  us  something. 
Or  so  I  gathered  from  his  friend  Davis." 

Flandrau  told  his  story,  or  all  of  it  that  would 
bear  telling  before  a  girl.  He  glossed  over  his 
account  of  the  dissipation  at  the  horse  ranch,  but 
he  told  all  he  knew  of  Laura  London  and  her  in 
terest  in  Sam.  But  it  was  when  he  related  what 
he  had  heard  at  Chalkeye's  place  that  the  interest 
grew  most  tense.  While  he  was  going  over  the  plot 
to  destroy  young  Cullison  there  was  no  sound  in 
the  room  but  his  voice.  Luck's  eyes  burned  like 
live  coals.  The  color  faded  from  the  face  of  his 
daughter  so  that  her  lips  were  gray  as  cigar  ash. 
Yet  she  sat  up  straight  and  did  not  flinch. 

When  he  had  finished  the  owner  of  the  Circle  C 
caught  his  hand.  "You've  done  fine,  boy.  Not  a 
man  in  Arizona  could  have  done  it  better." 

128 


CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT 

Kate  said  nothing  in  words  but  her  dark  long- 
lashed  eyes  rained  thanks  upon  him. 

They  talked  the  situation  over  from  all  angles. 
Always  it  simmered  down  to  one  result.  It  was 
Soapy's  first  play.  Until  he  moved  they  could  not. 
They  had  no  legal  evidence  except  the  word  of 
Curly.  Nor  did  they  know  on  what  nig)it  he  had 
planned  to  pull  off  the  hold-up.  If  they  were  to 
make  a  complete  gather  of  the  outfit,  with  evidence 
enough  to  land  them  in  the  penitentiary,  it  could 
only  be  after  the  hold-up. 

Meanwhile  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  wait  and 
take  what  precautions  they  could  against  being- 
caught  by  surprise.  One  of  these  was  to  see  that 
Sam  was  never  for  an  instant  left  unguarded  either 
day  or  night.  Another  was  to  ride  to  Tin  Cup  and 
look  the  ground  over  carefully.  For  the  present 
they  could  do  no  more  than  watch  events,  attract 
ing  no  attention  by  any  whispering  together  in 
public. 

Before  the  conference  broke  up  Kate  came  in  with 
her  protest. 

"That's  all  very  well,  but  what  about  Mr.  Flan- 
drau?  He  can't  stay  in  Saguache  with  that  man 
threatening  to  kill  him  on  sight." 

"Don't  worry  about  me,  Miss  Kate;"  and  Curly 
looked  at  her  and  blushed. 

129 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

Her  father  smiled  grimly.  "No,  I  wouldn't,  Kate. 
He  isn't  going  to  be  troubled  by  that  wolf  just 
now." 

"Doesn't  stand  to  reason  he'd  spoil  all  his  plans 
just  to  bump  me  off." 

"But  he  might.  He  forgot  all  about  his  plans 
this  morning.  How  do  we  know  he  mightn't  a 
second  time?" 

"Don't  you  worry,  honey.  I've  got  a  card  up  my 
sleeve,"  Luck  promised. 


CHAPTER  X 
"STICK   TO   YOUR    SADDLE" 

The  old  Arizona  fashion  of  settling  a  difference 
of  opinion  with  the  six-gun  had  long  fallen  into 
disuse,  but  Saguache  was  still  close  enough  to  the 
stark  primeval  emotions  to  wait  with  a  keen  in 
terest  for  the  crack  of  the  revolver  that  would  put 
a  period  to  the  quarrel  between  Soapy  Stone  and 
young  Flandrau.  It  was  known  that  Curly  had  re 
fused  to  leave  town,  just  as  it  was  known  that 
Stone  and  that  other  prison  bird  Blackwell  were 
hanging  about  the  Last  Chance  and  Chalkeye's 
Place  drinking  together  morosely.  It  was  observed 
too  that  whenever  Curly  appeared  in  public  he  was 
attended  by  friends.  Sometimes  it  would  be  Ma- 
loney  and  Davis,  sometimes  his  uncle  Alec  Flandrau, 
occasionally  a  couple  of  the  Map  of  Texas  vaqueros- 

It  chanced  that  "Old  Man"  Flandrau,  drifting 
into  Chalkeye's  Place,  found  in  the  assembled  group 
the  man  he  sought.  Billie  Mackenzie,  grizzled 
owner  of  the  Fiddleback  ranch,  was  with  him,  and 
it  was  in  the  preliminary  pause  before  drinking  that 
Alec  made  his  official  announcement. 

"No,  Mac,  I  ain't  worrying  about  that  any.  Curly 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

Is  going  to  get  a  square  deal.  We're  all  agreed  on 
that.  If  there's  any  shooting  from  cover  there'll 
be  a  lynching  pronto.  That  goes." 

Flandrau,  Senior,  did  not  glance  at  the  sullen 
face  of  Lute  Blackwell  hovering  in  the  background, 
but  he  knew  perfectly  well  that  inside  of  an  hour 
word  would  reach  Soapy  Stone  that  only  an  even 
break  with  Curly  would  be  allowed. 

The  day  passed  without  a  meeting  between  the 
two.  Curly  grew  nervous  at  the  delay. 

"I'm  as  restless  as  a  toad  on  a  hot  skillet,"  he 
confessed  to  Davis.  "This  thing  of  never  knowing 
what  minute  Soapy  will  send  me  his  leaden  compli 
ments  ain't  any  picnic.  Wisht  it  was  over." 

"He's  drinking  himself  blind.  Every  hour  is  to 
the  good  for  you." 

Curly  shrugged.  "Drunk  or  sober  Soapy  always 
shoots  straight." 

Another  day  passed.  The  festivities  had  begun 
and  Curly  had  to  be  much  in  evidence  before  the 
public.  His  friends  had  attempted  to  dissuade  him 
from  riding  in  the  bucking  broncho  contest,  but 
he  had  refused  to  let  his  name  be  scratched  from 
the  list  of  contestants. 

A  thousand  pair  of  eyes  in  the  grandstand  watched 
the  boy  as  he  lounged  against  the  corrak.fence 
laughing  and  talking  with  his  friends.  A  ao2en 
people  were  on  the  lookout  for  the  approach  of 

132 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

Stone.  Fifty  others  had  warned  the  young  man 
to  be  careful.  For  Saguache  was  with  him  almost 
to  a  man. 

Dick  Maloney  heard  his  voice  called  as  he  was 
passing  the  grandstand.  A  minute  later  he  was  in 
the  Cullison  box  shaking  hands  with  Kate. 

"Is — is  there  anything  new?"  she  asked  in  a  low 
voice. 

Her  friend  shook  his  head.  "No.  Soapy  may 
drift  out  here  any  minute  now." 

"Will  he ?"    Her  eyes  finished  the  question. 

He  shook  his  head.  "Don't  know.  That's  the 
mischief  of  it.  If  they  should  meet  just  after  Curly 
finishes  riding  the  boy  won't  have  a  chance.  His 
nerves  won't  be  steady  enough." 

"Dad  is  doing  something.  I  don't  know  what 
it  is.  He  had  a  meeting  with  a  lot  of  cattlemen 

about  it I  don't  see  how  that  boy  can  sit 

there  on  the  fence  laughing  when  any  minute " 

"Curly's  game  as  they  make  'em.  He's  a  prince, 
too.  I  like  that  boy  better  every  day." 

"He  doesn't  seem  to  me  so wild.  But  they 

say  he's  awfully  reckless."  She  said  it  with  a  visible 
reluctance,  as  if  she  wanted  him  to  deny  the  charge. 

"Sho !  Curly  needs  explaining  some.  That's  all. 
Give  a  dog  a  bad  name  and  hang  him.  That  saying 
is  as  straight  as  the  trail  of  a  thirsty  cow.  The 
kid  got  off  wrong  foot  first,  and  before  he'd  hardly 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

took  to  shaving  respectable  folks  were  hunting  the 
dictionary  to  find  bad  names  to  throw  at  him.  He 
was  a  reprobate  and  no  account.  Citizens  that 
differed  on  everything  else  was  unanimous  about 
that.  Mothers  kinder  herded  their  young  folks  in 
a  corral  when  he  slung  his  smile  their  way." 

"But  why  ?"  she  persisted.    "What  had  he  done  ?" 

"Gambled  his  wages,  and  drank  some,  and  beat 
up  Pete  Schiff,  and  shot  the  lights  out  of  the  Legal 
Tender  saloon.  That's  about  all  at  first." 

"Wasn't  it  enough?" 

"Most  folks  thought  so.  So  when  Curly  bumped 
into  them  keep-off-the-grass  signs  parents  put  up 
for  him  he  had  to  prove  they  were  justified.  That's 
the  way  a  kid  acts.  Half  the  bad  men  are  only 
coltish  cowpunchers  gone  wrong  through  rotten 
whiskey  and  luck  breaking  bad  for  them." 

"Is  Soapy  that  kind?"  she  asked,  but  not  because 
she  did  not  know  the  answer. 

"He's  the  other  kind,  bad  at  the  heart.  But  Curly 
was  just  a  kid  crazy  with  the  heat  when  he  made 
that  fool  play  of  rustling  horses." 

A  lad  made  his  way  to  them  with  a  note.  Kate 
read  it  and  turned  to  Dick.  Her  eyes  were  shining 
happily. 

"I've  got  news  from  Dad.  It's  all  right  Soapy 
Stone  has  left  town." 

"Why?" 

134 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

"A  dozen  of  the  big  cattlemen  signed  a  note  and 
sent  it  to  Stone.  They  told  him  that  if  he  touched 
Curly  he  would  never  leave  town  alive.  He  wa? 
given  word  to  get  out  of  town  at  once." 

Maloney  slapped  his  hand  joyously  on  his  thigh* 
"Fine!  Might  a-known  Luck  would  find  a  way 
out.  I  tell  you  this  thing  has  been  worying  me. 
Some  of  us  wanted  to  take  it  off  Curly's  hands, 
but  he  wouldn't  have  it.  He's  a  man  from  the 
ground  up,  Curly  is.  But  your  father  found  a  way 
to  butt  in  all  right.  Soapy  couldn't  stand 
out  against  the  big  ranchmen  when  they  got 
together  and  meant  business.  He  had  to  pull  his 
freight." 

"Let  me  tell  him  the  good  news,  Dick,"  she  said, 
eagerly. 

"Sure.     I'll  send  him  right  up." 

Bronzed  almost  to  a  coffee  brown,  with  the  lean 
lithe  grace  of  youth  garbed  in  the  picturesque 
regalia  of  the  vaquero,  Flandrau  was  a  taking 
enough  picture  to  hold  the  roving  eye  of  any  girl. 
A  good  many  centered  upon  him  now,  as  he  saun 
tered  forward  toward  the  Cullison  box  cool  and 
easy  and  debonair.  More  than  one  pulse  quickened 
at  sight  of  him,  for  his  gallantry,  his  peril  and  his 
boyishness  combined  to  enwrap  him  in  the  atmos 
phere  of  romance.  Few  of  the  observers  knew  what 
a  wary  vigilance  lay  behind  that  careless  manner. 

135 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND   STRAIGHT 

Kate  gathered  her  skirts  to  make  room  for  him 
beside  her. 

"Have  you  heard?    He  has  left  town." 

"Who?" 

r    "Soapy  Stone.     The  cattlemen  served  notice  on 
him  to  go.     So  he  left." 

A  wave  of  relief  swept  over  the  young  man. 
"That's  your  father's  fine  work." 

"Isn't  it  good?"  Her  eyes  were  shining  with 
gladness. 

"I'm  plumb  satisfied,"  he  admitted.  "I'm  not 
hankering  to  shoot  out  my  little  difference  with 
Soapy.  He's  too  handy  with  a  six-gun." 

"I'm  so  happy  I  don't  know  what  to  do." 

"I  suppose  now  the  hold-up  will  be  put  off.  Did 
Sam  and  Blackwell  go  with  him?" 

"No.    He  went  alone." 

"Have  you  seen  Sam  yet?" 

"No,  but  I've  seen  Laura  London.  She's  all  the 
nice  things  you've  said  about  her." 

Curly  grew  enthusiastic.  "Ain't  she  the  dandiest 
girl  ever?  She's  the  right  kind  of  a  friend.  And 
pretty — with  that  short  crinkly  hair  the  color  of 
ripe  nuts!  You  would  not  think  one  person  could 
own  so  many  dimples  as  she  does  when  she  laughs. 
It's  just  like  as  if  she  had  absorbed  sunshine  and 
was  warming  you  up  with  her  smile." 

"I  see  she  has  made  a  friend  of  you." 


CROOKED    TRAILS   'AND    STRAIGHT 

"You  bet  she  has." 

Miss  Cullison  shot  a  swift  slant  glance  at  him. 
"If  you'll  come  back  this  afternoon  you  can  meet 
her.  I'm  going  to  have  all  those  dimples  and  all 
that  sunshine  here  in  the  box  with  me." 

"Maybe  that  will  draw  Sam  to  you." 

"I'm  hoping  it  will.  But  I'm  afraid  not.  He 
avoids  us.  When  they  met  he  wouldn't  speak  to 
Father." 

"That's  the  boy  of  it.  Just  the  same  he  feels 
pretty  bad  about  the  quarrel.  I  reckon  there's  noth 
ing  to  do  but  keep  an  eye  on  him  and  be  ready  for 
Soapy's  move  when  he  makes  it." 

"I'm  so  afraid  something  will  happen  to  Sam." 

"Now  don't  you  worry,  Miss  Kate.  Sam  is  go 
ing  to  come  out  of  this  all  right.  We'll  find  a 
way  out  for  him  yet." 

Behind  her  smile  the  tears  lay  close.  "You're 
the  best  friend.  How  can  we  ever  thank  you  for 
what  you're  doing  for  Sam?" 

A  steer  had  escaped  from  the  corral  and  was 
galloping  down  the  track  in  front  of  the  grandstand 
with  its  tail  up.  The  young  man's  eyes  followed  the 
animal  absently  as  he  answered  in  a  low  voice. 

"Do  you  reckon  I  have  forgot  how  a  girl  took 
a  rope  from  my  neck  one  night?  Do  you  reckon 
^  ever  forget  that?" 

"It  was  nothing.    I  just  spoke  to  the  boys." 
137 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

"Or  that  I  don't  remember  how  the  man  I  had 
shot  went  bail  for  a  rustler  he  did  not  know  ?" 

"Dick  knew  you.     H:e  told  us  about  you." 

"Could  he  tell  you  any  good  about  me?  Could 
he  say  anything  except  that  I  was  a  worthless 
no-'count ?" 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  arm  and  stopped  him. 
"Don't!  I  won't  have  you  say  such  things  about 
yourself.  You  were  just  a  boy  in  trouble." 

"How  many  would  have  remembered  that?  But 
you  did.  You  fought  good  for  my  life  that  night. 
I'll  pay  my  debt,  part  of  it.  The  whole  I  never 
could  pay." 

His  voice  trembled  in  spite  of  the  best  he  could 
do.  Their  eyes  did  not  meet,  but  each  felt  the 
thrill  of  joy  waves  surging  through  their  veins. 

The  preliminaries  in  the  rough  riding  contest 
took  place  that  afternoon.  Of  the  four  who  won 
the  right  to  compete  in  the  finals,  two  were  Curly 
Flandrau  and  Dick  Maloney.  They  went  together 
to  the  Cullison  box 'to  get  the  applause  due  them. 

Kate  Cullison  had  two  guests  with  her.  One  was 
Laura  London,  the  other  he  had  never  seen.  She 
was  a  fair  young  woman  with  thick  ropes  of  yellow 
hair  coiled  round  her  head.  Deep-breasted  and 
robust-loined,  she  had  the  rich  coloring  of  the 
Scandinavian  race  and  much  of  the  slow  grace 
peculiar  to  its  women. 

138 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

The  hostess  pronounced  their  names.  "Miss 
Anderson,  this  is  Mr.  Flandrau.  Mr.  Flandrau — 
Miss  Anderson." 

Curly  glanced  quickly  at  Kate  Cullison,  who 
nodded.  This  then  was  the  sweetheart  of  poor  Mac, 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  she  took  the  young" 
man's  hand.  To  his  surprise  Curly  found  his  throat 
choking  up.  He  could  not  say  a  word,  but  she 
understood  the  unspoken  sympathy.  They  sat  to 
gether  in  the  back  of  the  box. 

"I'd  like  to  come  and  talk  to  you  about — Mac, 
Can  I  come  this  evening,  say?" 

"Please." 

iCate  gave  them  no  more  time  for  dwelling  on 
Uie  past. 

^You  did  ride  so  splendidly,"  she  told  Curly, 

"No  better  than  Dick  did,"  he  protested. 

"I  didn't  say  any  better  than  Dick.  You  both 
did  fine." 

"The  judges  will  say  you  ride  better.  You've 
got  first  place  cinched,"  Maloney  contributed. 

"Sho!  Just  because  I  cut  up  fancy  didoes  on 
a  horse.  Grandstand  stunts  are  not  riding.  For 
straight  stick-to-your-saddle  work  I  know  my  boss, 
and  his  name  is  Dick  Maloney." 

"We'll  know  to-morrow,"  Laura  London  summed 
up. 

As  it  turned  out,  Maloney  was  the  better  prophet. 
139 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

Curly  won  the  first  prize  of  five  hundred  dollars 
and  the  championship  belt.    Dick  took  second  place. 

Saguache,  already  inclined  to  make  a  hero  of  the 
young  rustler,  went  wild  over  his  victory.  He 
Icould  have  been  chosen  mayor  that  day  if  there 
had  been  an  election.  To  do  him  justice,  Curly 
kept  his  head  remarkably  well. 

"To  be  a  human  clothes  pin  ain't  so  much,"  he 
explained  to  Kate.  "Just  because  a  fellow  can  stick 
to  the  hurricane  deck  of  a  bronch  without  pulling 
leather  whilst  it's  making  a  milk  shake  out  of  him 
don't  prove  that  he  has  got  any  more  brains  or 
decency  than  the  law  allows.  Say,  ain't  this  a 
peach  of  a  mo'ning." 

A  party  of  young  people  were  taking  an  early 
morning  ride  through  the  outskirts  of  the  little 
city.  Kate  pulled  her  pony  to  a  walk  and  glanced 
across  at  him.  He  had  taken  off  his  hat  to  catch  the 
breeze,  and  the  sun  was  picking  out  the  golden 
lights  in  his  curly  brown  hair.  She  found  herself 
admiring  the  sure  poise  of  the  head,  the  flat  straight 
back,  the  virile  strength  of  him. 

It  did  not  occur  to  her  that  she  herself  made  a 
picture  to  delight  the  heart.  The  curves  of  her 
erect  tiger-lithe  young  body  were  modeled  by  nature 
to  perfection.  Radiant  with  the  sheer  pleasure  of 
life,  happy  as  God's  sunshine,  she  was  a  creature 
vividly  in  tune  with  the  glad  morning. 

140 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

"Anyhow,  I'm  glad  you  won." 

Their  eyes  met.  A  spark  from  his  flashed  deep 
into  hers  as  a  star  falls  through  the  heavens  on 
a  summer  night.  Each  looked  away.  After  one 
breathless  full-pulsed  moment  she  recovered  her' 
self. 

"Wouldn't  it  be  nice  if ?" 

His  gaze  followed  hers  to  two  riders  in  front  of 
them.  One  was  Maloney,  the  other  Myra  Ander 
son.  The  sound  of  the  girl's  laughter  rippled  back 
to  them  on  the  light  breeze. 

Curly  smiled.  "Yes,  that  would  be  nice.  The 
best  I  can  say  for  her — and  it's  a  whole  lot — is 
that  I  believe  she's  good  enough  for  Dick." 

"And  the  best  I  can  say  for  him  is  that  he's  good 
enough  for  her,"  the  girl  retorted  promptly. 

"Then  let's  hope " 

"I  can't  think  of  anything  that  would  please  me 
more." 

He  looked  away  into  the  burning  sun  on  the 
edge  of  the  horizon.  "I  can  think  of  one  thing 
that  would  please  me  more,"  he  murmured. 

She  did  not  ask  him  what  it  was,  nor  did  he 
volunteer  an  explanation.  Perhaps  it  was  from  the 
rising  sun  her  face  had  taken  its  swift  glow  of  warm 
color. 


141 


PART    II 

LUCK 

CHAPTER  I 
AT  THE   ROUND   UP   CLUB 

A  big  game  had  been  in  progress  all  night  at  the 
Round  Up  Club.  Now  the  garish  light  of  day 
streamed  through  the  windows,  but  the  electric 
cluster  still  flung  down  its  yellow  glare  upon  the 
table.  Behind  the  players  were  other  smaller  tables 
littered  with  cigars,  discarded  packs,  and  glasses 
full  or  empty.  The  men  were  in  their  shirt  sleeves. 
Big  broad-shouldered  fellows  they  were,  with  the 
marks  of  the  outdoors  hardriding  West  upon  them. 
No  longer  young,  they  were  still  full  of  the  vigor 
and  energy  of  unflagging  strength.  From  bronzed 
faces  looked  steady  unwinking  eyes  with  humorous 
creases  around  the  corners,  hard  eyes  that  judged 
a  man  and  his  claims  shrewdly  and  with  good  tem 
per.  Most  of  them  had  made  good  in  the  land, 
and  their  cattle  fed  upon  a  thousand  hills. 

The  least  among  them  physically  was  Luck  Cul- 
143 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

lison,  yet  he  was  their  recognized  leader.  There 
was  some  innate  quality  in  this  man  with  the  gray, 
steel-chilled  eyes  that  marked  him  as  first  in  what 
ever  company  he  chose  to  frequent.  A  good  friend 
and  a  good  foe,  men  thought  seriously  before  they 
opposed  him.  He  had  made  himself  a  power  in  the 
Southwest  because  he  was  the  type  that  goes  the 
limit  when  aroused.  Yet  about  him,  too,  there  was 
the  manner  of  a  large  amiability,  of  the  easy  toler 
ance  characteristic  of  the  West. 

While  Alec  Flandrau  shuffled  and  dealt,  the  play 
ers  relaxed.  Cigars  were  relit,  drinks  ordered. 
Conversation  reverted  to  the  ordinary  topics  that 
interested  Cattleland.  The  price  of  cows,  the  good 
rains,  the  time  of  the  fall  roundup,  were  touched 
upon. 

The  door  opened  to  let  in  a  newcomer,  a  slim, 
graceful  man  much  younger  than  the  others  pres 
ent,  and  one  whose  costume  and  manner  brought 
additional  color  into  the  picture.  Flandrau,  Senior, 
continued  to  shuffle  without  turning  his  head.  Cul- 
lison  also  had  his  back  to  the  door,  but  the  man 
hung  his  broad-rimmed  gray  hat  on  the  rack — be 
side  an  exactly  similar  one  that  belonged  to  the 
owner  of  the  Circle  C — and  moved  leisurely  for 
ward  till  he  was  within  range  of  his  vision. 

"Going  to  prove  up  soon  on  that  Del  Oro  claim 
of  yours,  Luck  ?"  asked  Flandrau. 

144 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

He  was  now  dealing,  his  eyes  on  the  cards,  so 
that  he  missed  the  embarrassment  in  the  faces  of 
those  about  him. 

"On  Thursday,  the  first  day  the  law  allows,"  Cul- 
lison  answered  quietly. 

Flandrau  chuckled.  "I  reckon  Cass  Fendrick 
will  be  some  sore." 

"I  expect/'  Cullison's  gaze  met  coolly  the  black, 
wrathful  eyes  of  the  man  who  had  just  come  in. 

"Sort  of  put  a  crimp  in  his  notions  when  you 
took  up  the  canon  draw/'  Flandrau  surmised. 

Something  in  the  strained  silence  struck  the 
dealer  as  unusual.  He  looked  up,  and  showed  a 
momentary  confusion. 

"Didn't  know  you  were  there,  Cass.  Looks  like 
I  put  my  foot  in  it  sure  that  time.  I  ce'tainly 
thought  you  were  an  absentee,"  he  apologized. 

"Or  you  wouldn't  have  been  talking  about  me," 
retorted  Fendrick  acidly.  The  words  were  flung 
at  Flandrau,  but  plainly  they  were  meant  as  a  chal 
lenge  for  Cullison. 

A  bearded  man,  the  oldest  in  the  party,  cut  in 
with  good-natured  reproof.  "I  shouldn't  wonder, 
Cass,  but  your  name  is  liable  to  be  mentioned  just 
like  that  of  any  other  man." 

"Didn't  know  you  were  in  this,  Yesler,"  Fen 
drick  drawled  insolently. 

"Oh,  well,  I  butted  in,"  the  other  laughed  easily. 
145 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

He  pushed  a  stack  of  chips  toward  the  center  of 
the  table.  "The  pot's  open." 

Fendrick,  refused  a  quarrel,  glared  at  the  im 
passive  face  of  Cullison,  and  passed  to  the  rear 
room  for  a  drink.  His  impudence  needed  fortify 
ing,  for  he  knew  that  since  he  had  embarked  in 
the  sheep  business  he  was  not  welcome  at  this  club, 
that  in  fact  certain  members  had  suggested  his 
name  be  dropped  from  the  books.  Before  he  re 
turned  to  the  poker  table  the  drink  he  had  ordered 
became  three. 

The  game  was  over  and  accounts  were  being 
straightened.  Cullison  was  the  heavy  loser.  All 
night  he  had  been  bucking  hard  luck.  His  bluffs 
had  been  called.  The  others  had  not  come  in 
against  his  strong  hands.  On  a  straight  flush  he 
had  drawn  down  the  ante  and  nothing  more.  To 
gay  the  least,  it  was  exasperating.  But  his  face  had 
showed  no  anger.  He  had  played  poker  too  many 
years,  was  too  much  a  sport  in  the  thorough-going 
frontier  fashion,  to  wince  when  the  luck  broke 
badly  for  him. 

The  settlement  showed  that  the  owner  of  the  Cir 
cle  C  was  twenty-five  hundred  dollars  behind  the 
game.  He  owed  Mackenzie  twelve  hundred,  Flan- 
drau  four  hundred,  and  three  hundred  to  Yesler. 

With  Fendrick  sitting  in  an  easy  chair  just  across 
146 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

the  room,  he  found  it  a  little  difficult  to  say  what 
otherwise  would  have  been  a  matter  of  course. 

"My  bank's  busted  just  now,  boys.  Have  to  ask 
you  to  let  it  stand  for  a  few  days.  Say,  till  the 
end  of  the  week." 

Fendrick  laughed  behind  the  paper  he  was  pre 
tending  to  read.  He  knew  quite  well  that  Luck's 
word  was  as  good  as  his  bond,  but  he  chose  to  sug 
gest  a  doubt. 

"Maybe  you'll  explain  the  joke  to  us,  Cass,"  the 
owner  of  the  Circle  C  said  very  quietly. 

"Oh,  I  was  just  laughing  at  the  things  I  see, 
Luck,"  returned  the  younger  man  with  airy  offense, 
his  eyes  on  the  printed  sheet. 

"Meaning  for  instance?" 

"Just  human  nature.  Any  law  against  laugh 
ing?" 

Cullison  turned  his  back  on  him.  "See  you  on 
Thursday  if  that's  soon  enough,  boys." 

"All  the  time  you  want,  Luck.  Let  mine  go  till 
after  the  roundup  if  you'd  rather,"  Mackenzie  sug 
gested. 

"Thursday  suits  me." 

Cullison  rose  and  stretched.  He  had  impressed 
his  strong,  dominant  personality  upon  his  clothes, 
from  the  high-heeled  boots  to  the  very  wrmkies  in 
the  corduroy  coat  he  was  now  putting  on.  He  bad 

147 


CROOKED    TRAILS   'AND    STRAIGHT 

enemies,  a  good  many  of  them,  but  his  friends  were 
legion. 

"Don't  hurry  yourself." 

"Oh,  I'll  rustle  the  money,  all  right.  Coming 
down  to  the  hotel?"  Luck  was  reaching  for  his 
hat,  but  turned  toward  his  friends  as  he  spoke. 

Without  looking  again  at  Fendrick,  he  led  the 
way  to  the  street. 

The  young  man  left  alone  cursed  softly  to  him 
self,  and  ordered  another  drink.  He  knew  he  was 
overdoing  it,  but  the  meeting  with  Cullison  had  an 
noyed  him  exceedingly.  The  men  had  never  been 
friends,  and  of  late  years  they  had  been  leaders  of 
hostile  camps.  Both  of  them  could  be  overbear 
ing,  and  there  was  scarcely  a  week  but  their  inter 
ests  overlapped.  Luck  was  capable  of  great  gener 
osity,  but  he  could  be  obstinate  as  the  rock  of 
Gibraltar  when  he  chose.  There  had  been  differ 
ences  about  the  ownership  of  calves,  about  straying 
cattle,  about  political  matters.  Finally  had  come 
open  hostility.  Cass  leased  from  the  forestry  de 
partment  the  land  upon  which  Cullison's  cattle  had 
always  run  free  of  expense.  Upon  this  he  had  put 
sheep,  a  thing  in  itself  of  great  injury  to  the  cattle 
interests.  The  stockmen  had  all  been  banded  to 
gether  in  opposition  to  the  forestry  administration 
of  the  new  regime,  and  Luck  regarded  Fendrick's 
action  as  treachery  to  the  common  cause. 

148 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

He  struck  back  hard.  In  Arizona  the  open  range 
is  valuable  only  so  long  as  the  water  holes  also  are 
common  property  or  a  private  supply  available.  The 
Circle  C  cattle  and  those  of  Fendrick  came  down 
from  the  range  to  the  Del  Oro  to  water  at  a  point 
where  the  canon  walls  opened  to  a  spreading  valley. 
This  bit  of  meadow  Luck  homesteaded  and  fenced 
on  the  north  side,  thus  cutting  the  cattle  of  his  en 
emy  from  the  river. 

Cass  was  furious.  He  promptly  tore  down  the 
fence  to  let  his  cattle  and  sheep  through.  Cullison 
rebuilt  it,  put  up  a  shack  at  a  point  which  com 
manded  the  approach,  and  set  a  guard  upon  it  day 
and  night.  Open  warfare  had  ensued,  and  one  of 
the  sheepherders  had  been  beaten  because  he  per 
sisted  in  crossing  the  dead  line. 

Now  Cullison  was  going  to  put  the  legal  seal  on 
the  matter  by  making  final  proof  on  his  homestead. 
Cass  knew  that  if  he  did  so  it  would  practically  put 
him  out  of  business.  He  would  be  at  the  mercy 
of  his  foe,  who  could  ruin  him  if  he  pleased. 
Luck  would  be  in  a  position  to  dictate  terms  abso 
lutely. 

Nor  did  it  make  his  defeat  any  more  palatable  to 
Cass  that  he  had  brought  it  on  himself  by  his  bad- 
tempered  unneighborliness  and  by  his  overreaching 
disposition.  A  hundred  times  he  had  blacknamed 
himself  for  an  arrant  fool  because  he  h?d  not  antici- 

149 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

pated  the  move  of  his  enemy  and  homesteaded  on 
his  own  account. 

He  felt  that  there  must  be  some  way  out  of  the 
trap  if  he  could  only  find  it.  Whenever  the  thought 
of  eating  humble  pie  to  Luck  came  into  his  mind, 
the  rage  boiled  in  him.  He  swore  he  would  not 
do  it.  Better  a  hundred  times  to  see  the  thing  out 
to  a  fighting  finish. 

Taking  the  broad-rimmed  gray  hat  he  found  on 
the  rack,  Cass  passed  out  of  the  clubhouse  and  into 
the  sun-bathed  street. 


CHAPTER  II 
LUCK   MEETS   AN   OLD   ACQUAINTANCE 

Cullison  and  his  friends  proceeded  down  Papago 
street  to  the  old  plaza  where  their  hotel  was  lo 
cated.  Their  transit  was  an  interrupted  one,  for 
these  four  cattlemen  were  among  the  best  known 
in  the  Southwest.  All  along  the  route  they  scat 
tered  nods  of  recognition,  friendly  greetings,  and 
genial  banter.  One  of  them — the  man  who  had 
formerly  been  the  hard-riding,  quick-shooting 
sheriff  of  the  county — met  also  scowls  once  or 
twice,  to  which  he  was  entirely  indifferent.  Luck 
had  no  slavish  respect  for  law,  had  indeed,  if  ru 
mor  were  true,  run  a  wild  and  stormy  course  in  his 
youth.  But  his  reign  as  sheriff  had  been  a  terror 
to  lawbreakers.  He  had  made  enemies,  desperate 
and  unscrupulous  ones,  who  had  sworn  to  wipe  him 
from  among  the  living,  and  one  of  these  he  was 
now  to  meet  for  the  first  time  since  the  man  had 
stood  handcuffed  before  him,  livid  with  fury,  and 
had  sworn  to  cut  his  heart  out  at  the  earliest  chance. 

It  was  in  the  lobby  of  the  hotel  that  Cullison 
came  plump  against  Lute  Blackwell.  For  just  a 
moment  they  stared  at  each  other  before  the  former 
sheriff  spoke. 

151 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

"Out  again,  eh,  Blackwell?"  he  said  easily. 

From  the  bloodshot  eyes  one  could  have  told  at 
a  glance  the  man  had  been  drinking  heavily.  From 
whiskey  he  had  imbibed  a  Dutch  courage  just  bold 
enough  to  be  dangerous. 

"Yes,  I'm  out — and  back  again,  just  as  I  prom 
ised,  Mr.  Sheriff,"  he  threatened. 

The  cattleman  ignored  his  manner.  "Then  I'll 
give  you  a  piece  of  advice  gratis.  Papago  County 
has  grown  away  from  the  old  days.  It  has  got  past 
the  two-gun  man.  He's  gone  to  join  the  antelope 
and  the  painted  Indian.  You'll  do  well  to  remem 
ber  that." 

The  fellow  leaned  forward,  sneering  so  that  his 
ugly  mouth  looked  like  a  crooked  gash.  "How 
about  the  one-gun  man,  Mr.  Sheriff?" 

"He  doesn't  last  long  now." 

"Doesn't  he?" 

The  man's  rage  boiled  over.  But  Luck  was  far 
and  away  the  quicker  of  the  two.  His  left  hand 
shot  forward  and  gripped  the  rising  wrist,  his  right 
caught  the  hairy  throat  and  tightened  on  it.  He 
shook  the  convict  as  if  he  had  been  a  child,  and 
flung  him,  black  in  the  face,  against  the  wall,  where 
he  hung,  strangling  and  sputtering. 

"I — I'll  get  you  yet,"  the  ruffian  panted.  But  he 
did  not  again  attempt  to  reach  for  the  weapon  in 
his  hip  pocket. 

152 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

"You  talk  too  much  with  your  mouth." 

With  superb  contempt,  Luck  slapped  him,  turned 
on  his  heel,  and  moved  away,  regardless  of  the  raw, 
stark  lust  to  kill  that  was  searing  this  man's  ele 
mental  brain. 

Across  the  convict's  rage  came  a  vision.  He  saw 
a  camp  far  up  in  the  Rincons,  and  seated  around  a 
fire  five  men  at  breakfast,  all  of  them  armed.  Upon 
them  had  come  one  man  suddenly.  He  had  domi 
nated  the  situation  quietly,  had  made  one  disarm 
the  others,  had  handcuffed  the  one  he  wanted  and 
taken  him  from  his  friends  through  a  hostile  coun 
try  where  any  hour  he  might  be  shot  from  am 
bush.  Moreover,  he  had  traveled  with  his  prisoner 
two  days,  always  cheerful  and  matter  of  fact,  not 
at  all  uneasy  as  to  what  might  lie  behind  the  washes 
or  the  rocks  they  passed.  Finally  he  had  brought 
his  man  safely  to  Casa  Grande,  from  whence  he  had 
gone  over  the  road  to  the  penitentiary.  Blackwell 
had  been  the  captured  man,  and  he  held  a  deep  re 
spect  for  the  prowess  of  the  officer  who  had  taken 
him.  The  sheer  pluck  of  the  adventure  had  alone 
made  it  possible.  For  such  an  unflawed  nerve 
Blackwell  knew  his  jerky  rage  was  no  match. 

The  paroled  convict  recovered  his  breath  and 
slunk  out  of  the  hotel. 

Billie  Mackenzie,  owner  of  the  Fiddleback  ranchr 
laughed  even  while  he  disapproved.  "Some  day,, 

153 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

Luck,  you'll  get  yours  when  you  are  throwing 
chances  at  a  coyote  like  this.  You'll  guess  your 
man  wrong,  or  he'll  be  one  glass  drunker  than  you 
figure  on,  and  then  he'll  plug  you  through  and 
through." 

"The  man  that  takes  chances  lives  longest,  Mac/' 
his  friend  replied,  dismissing  the  subject  carelessly. 
"I'm  going  to  tuck  away  about  three  hours  of  sleep. 
So  long."  And  with  a  nod  he  was  gone  to  his 
room. 

"All  the  same  Luck's  too  derned  rash,"  Flandrau 
commented.  "He'll  run  into  trouble  good  and  hard 
one  of  these  days.  When  I'm  in  Rattlesnake  Gulch 
I  don't  aim  to  pick  posies  too  unobservant." 

Mackenzie  looked  worried.  No  man  lived  whom 
he  admired  so  much  as  Luck  Cullison.  "And  he 
hadn't  ought  to  be  sitting  in  these  big  games.  He's 
hard  up.  Owes  a  good  bit  here  and  there.  Always 
was  a  spender.  First  thing  he'll  have  to  sell  the 
Circle  C  to  square  things.  He'll  pay  us  this  week 
like  he  said  he  would.  That's  dead  sure.  He'd  die 
before  he'd  fall  down  on  it,  now  Fendrick  has  got 
his  back  up.  But  I  swear  I  don't  know  where  he'll 
raise  the  price.  Money  is  so  tight  right  now." 

That  afternoon  Luck  called  at  every  bank  in 
Saguache.  All  of  the  bankers  knew  him  and  were 
friendly  to  him,  but  in  spite  of  their  personal  re 
gard  they  could  do  nothing  for  him. 

154 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

"It's  this  stringency,  Luck,"  Jordan  of  the  Cat 
tlemen's  National  explained  to  him.  "We  can't  let 
a  dollar  go  even  on  the  best  security.  You  know 
I'd  like  to  let  you  have  it,  but  it  wouldn't  be  right 
to  the  bank.  We've  got  to  keep  our  reserve  up. 
Why,  I'm  lying  awake  nights  trying  to  figure  out  a 
way  to  call  in  more  of  our  money." 

"I'm  not  asking  much,  Jack." 

"Luck,  I'd  let  you  have  it  if  I  dared.  Why, 
we're  running  close  to  the  wind.  Public  confidence 
is  a  mighty  ticklish  thing.  If  I  didn't  have  twenty 
thousand  coming  from  El  Paso  on  the  Flyer  to 
night  I'd  be  uneasy  for  the  bank." 

"Twenty  thousand  on  the  Flyer.  I  reckon  you 
ship  by  express,  don't  you?" 

"Yes.  Don't  mention  it  to  anyone.  That  twenty 
thousand  would  come  handy  to  a  good  many  people 
in  this  country  these  times." 

"It  would  come  right  handy  to  me,"  Luck 
laughed  ruefully.  "I  need  every  cent  of  it.  After 
the  beef  round-up,  I'll  be  on  Easy  Street,  but  it's 
going  to  be  hard  sledding  to  keep  going  till  then." 

"You'll  make  a  turn  somehow.  It  will  work  out. 
Maybe  when  money  isn't  so  tight  I'll  be  able  to  do 
something  for  you." 

Luck  returned  to  the  hotel  morosely,  and  tried 
to  figure  a  way  out  of  his  difficulties.  He  was  not 
going  to  be  beaten.  He  never  had  accepted  defeat, 

155 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

.even  in  the  early  days  whe'n  he  had  sometimes  taken 
a  lawless  short  cut  to  what  he  wanted.  By  God, 
he  would  not  lose  out  after  all  these  years  of  fight 
ing.  It  had  been  his  desperate  need  of  money  that 
had  made  him  sit  in  last  night's  poker  game.  But 
he  had  succeeded  only  in  making  a  bad  situation 
worse.  He  knew  his  debts  by  heart,  but  he  jotted 
them  down  on  the  back  of  an  envelope  and  added 
them  again. 

Mortgage  on  ranch  (due  Oct.  i),  $13,000 
Note  to  First  National,  3>5oo 

Note  to  Reynolds,  !>75O 

I  O  U  to  Mackenzie,  1,200 

Same  to  Flandrau,  400 

Same  to  Yesler,  300 

Tota\,  $20,150 

Twenty  thousand  was  the  sum  he  needed,  and 
mighty  badly,  too.  Absentmindedly  he  turned  the 
envelope  over  and  jotted  down  one  or  two  other 
things.  Twenty  thousand  dollars!  Just  the  sum 
Jordan  had  coming  to  the  bank  on  the  Flyer.  Sub 
consciously,  Luck's  fingers  gave  expression  to  his 
thoughts.  $20,000.  Half  a  dozen  times  they  pen 
ciled  it,  and  just  below  the  figures,  "W.  &  S.  Ex. 
Co."  Finally  they  wrote  automatically  the  one 
word,  "To-night." 

Luck  looked  at  what  he  had  written,  laughed 
grimly,  and  tore  the  envelope  in  two.  He  threw 
the  pieces  in  the  waste  paper  basket. 

156 


CHAPTER  III 
AN   INITIALED    HAT 

Mackenzie  was  reading  the  Sentinel  while  he  ate 
a  late  breakfast.  He  had  it  propped  against  the 
water  bottle,  so  that  it  need  not  interfere  with  the 
transportation  of  sausages,  fried  potatoes,  hot  cakes, 
and  coffee  to  their  common  destination. 

Trying  to  do  two  things  at  once  has  its  disad 
vantages.  A  startling  headline  caught  his  eyes  just 
as  the  cup  was  at  his  lips.  Hot  coffee,  precipitately 
swallowed,  scalded  his  tongue  and  throat.  He  set 
down  the  cup,  swore  mildly,  and  gave  his  atten 
tion  to  the  news  that  had  excited  him.  The  re 
porter  had  run  the  story  to  a  column,  but  the  lead 
ing  paragraph  gave  the  gist  of  it: 

While  the  citizens  of  Saguache  were 
peacefully  sleeping  last  night,  a  lone 
bandit  held  up  the  messengers  of  the 
Western  and  Southern  Express  Company, 
and  relieved  them  of  $20,000  just  re 
ceived  from  El  Paso  on  the  Flyer. 

Perry  Hawley,  the  local  manager  of  the 
company,  together  with  Len  Rogers,  the 
armed  guard,  had  just  returned  from  the 

157 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

depot,  where  the  money  had  been  turned 
over  to  them  and  receipted  for.  Hawley 
had  unlocked  the  door  of  the  office  and 
had  stepped  in,  followed  by  Rogers,  when 
a  masked  desperado  appeared  suddenly 
out  of  the  darkness,  disarmed  the  guard 
and  manager,  took  the  money,  passed 
through  the  door  and  locked  it  after  him, 
and  vanished  as  silently  as  he  had  come. 
Before  leaving,  he  warned  his  victims  that 
the  place  would  be  covered  for  ten  min 
utes  and  at  any  attempt  to  call  for  help 
they  would  be  shot.  Notwithstanding 
this,  the  imprisoned  men  risked  their  lives 
by  raising  the  alarm. 

Further  down  the  page  Mackenzie  discovered 
that  the  desperado  was  still  at  large,  but  that  Sher 
iff  Bolt  expected  shortly  to  lay  hands  on  him. 

"I'll  bet  a  dollar  Nick  Bolt  didn't  make  any  such 
claim  to  the  reporter.  He  ain't  the  kind  that 
brags/'  Mackenzie  told  himself. 

He  folded  the  paper  and  returned  to  his  room 
to  make  preparation  to  return  to  his  ranch.  The 
buzz  of  the  telephone  called  him  to  the  receiver. 
The  voice  of  Cullison  reached  him. 

"That  you,  Mac.  I'll  be  right  up.  No,  don't' 
come  down.  I'd  rather  see  you  alone." 

The  owner  of  the  Circle  C  came  right  to  busi 
ness.  "I've  made  a  raise,  Mac,  and  while  I've  got 
it  I'm  goin^  to  skin  off  what's  coming  to  you." 

158 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

He  had  taken  a  big  roll  of  bills  from  his  pocket, 
and  was  counting  off  what  he  had  lost  to  his  friend. 
The  latter  noticed  that  it  all  seemed  to  be  in  twen 
ties. 

"Twelve  hundred.    That  squares  us,  Mac." 

The  Scotchman  was  vaguely  uneasy  without  a 
definite  reason  for  his  anxiety.  Only  last  night 
Cullison  had  told  him  not  a  single  bank  in  town 
would  advance  him  a  dollar.  Now  he  had  money 
in  plenty.  Where  had  he  got  it? 

"No  hurry  at  all,  Luck.  Pay  when  you're  good 
and  ready." 

"That's  now." 

"Because  I'll  only  put  it  in  the  Cattlemen's  Na 
tional.  It's  yours  if  you  need  it." 

"I'll  let  you  know  if  I  do,"  his  friend  nodded. 

Mackenzie's  eye  fell  on  a  copy  of  the  Sentinel 
protruding  from  the  other's  pocket.  "Read  about 
the  hold-up  of  the  W.  £  S.  Express?  That  fellow 
had  his  nerve  with  him." 

"Sho !  This  hold-up  game's  the  easiest  yet.  He 
got  the  drop  on  them,  and  there  was  nothing  to  it. 
The  key  was  still  in  the  lock  of  the  door.  Well, 
when  he  gets  through  he  steps  out,  turns  the  key, 
and  rides  away." 

"How  did  he  know  there  was  money  coming  in 
last  night?" 

"There's  always  a  leak  about  things  of  that  sort. 
159 


CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT 

Somebody  talks.  I  knew  it  myself  for  that  mat 
ter." 

" You  knew!    Who  told  you?" 

"That's  a  secret,  Mac.  Come  to  think  of  it,  I 
wish  you  wouldn't  tell  anybody  that  I  knew.  I 
don't  want  to  get  the  man  who  told  me  in  trouble." 

"Sure  I  won't."  He  passed  to  another  phase  of 
the  subject.  "The  Sentinel  says  Bolt  expects  to 
catch  the  robber.  Think  he  will?" 

"Not  if  the  fellow  knows  his  business.  Bolt  has 
nothing  to  go  on.  He  has  the  whole  Southwest  to 
pick  from.  For  all  he  knows,  it  was  you." 

"Yes,  but " 

"Or  more  likely  me."  The  gray  eyes  of  the 
former  sheriff  held  a  frosty  smile. 

In  spite  of  that  smile,  or  perhaps  because  of  it, 
Mackenzie  felt  again  that  flash  of  doubt.  "What's 
the  use  of  talking  foolishness,  Luck?  Course  you 
didn't  do  it.  Anybody  would  know  that.  Man,  I 
whiles  wonder  at  you,"  he  protested,  relapsing  into 
his  native  tongue  as  he  sometimes  did  when  ex 
cited. 

"I  didn't  say  I  did  it.  I  said  I  might  have  done 
it." 

"Oh,  well !     You  didn't.     I  know  you  too  well." 

But  the  trouble  was  Mackenzie  did  not  know  him 
well  enough.  Cullison  was  hard  up,  close  to  the 
wall.  How  far  would  he  go  to  save  himself? 

160 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

Thirty  years  before  when  they  had  been  wild  young 
lads  these  two  had  hunted  their  fun  together.  Luck 
had  always  been  the  leader,  had  always  been  ready 
for  any  daredeviltry  that  came  to  his  mind.  He 
had  been  the  kind  to  go  the  limit  in  whatever  he 
undertook,  to  play  it  to  a  finish  in  spite  of  opposi 
tion.  And  what  a  man  is  he  must  be  to  the  end. 
In  his  slow,  troubled  fashion,  Mac  wondered  if  his 
old  side  partner's  streak  of  lawlessness  would  take 
him  as  far  as  a  hold-up.  Of  course  it  would  not, 
he  assured  himself;  but  he  could  not  get  the  ridicu 
lous  notion  out  of  his  head.  It  drew  his  thoughts, 
and  at  last  his  steps  toward  the  express  office  where 
the  hold-up  had  taken  place. 

He  opened  a  futile  conversation  with  Hawley, 
while  Len  Rogers,  the  guard  who  had  not 
made  good,  looked  at  him  with  a  persistent,  hostile 
eye. 

"Hard  luck,"  the  cattleman  condoled. 

"That's  what  you  think,  is  it?  You  and  your 
friends,  too,  I  reckon." 

Mackenzie  looked  at  the  guard,  who  was  plainly 
sore  in  every  humiliated  crevice  of  his  brain.  "I 
ain't  speaking  for  my  friends,  Len,  but  for  myself," 
he  said  amiably. 

Rogers  laughed  harshly.  "Didn't  know  but 
what  you  might  be  speaking  for  one  of  your 
friends." 

161 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

"They  can  all  speak  for  themselves  when  they 
have  got  anything  to  say." 

Hawley  sent  a  swift,  warning  look  toward  his 
subordinate.  The  latter  came  to  time  sulkily.  "I 
didn't  say  they  couldn't." 

Mackenzie  drifted  from  this  unfriendly  atmos 
phere  to  the  courthouse.  He  found  Sheriff  Bolt  in 
his  office.  It  was  that  official's  busy  day,  but  he 
found  time  not  only  to  see  the  owner  of  the  Fiddle- 
back,  but  to  press  upon  him  cordially  an  invitation 
to  sit  down  and  smoke.  The  Scotchman  wanted 
to  discuss  the  robbery,  but  was  shy  about  attack 
ing  the  subject.  While  he  boggled  at  it,  Bolt  was 
off  on  another  tack. 

Inside  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  sheriff  had 
found  out  all  he  wanted  to  know  about  the  poker 
game,  Cullison's  financial  difficulties,  and  the  news 
that  Luck  had  liquidated  his  poker  debt  since  break 
fast  time.  He  had  turned  the  simple  cattleman's 
thoughts  inside  out,  was  aware  of  the  doubt  Billie 
had  scarcely  admitted  to  himself,  and  knew  all  he 
did  except  the  one  point  Luck  had  asked  him  not 
to  mention.  Moreover,  he  had  talked  so  casually 
*hat  his  visitor  had  no  suspicion  of  what  he  was 
driving  at. 

Mackenzie  attempted  a  little  sleuthing  of  his 
own.  "This  hold-up  fellow  kind  of  slipped  one 
over  on  you  last  night,  Bolt." 

162 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

"Maybe  so,  and  maybe  not." 

"Got  a  clew,  have  you?" 

"Oh,  yes— yes."  The  sheriff  looked  straight  at 
him.  "I've  a  notion  his  initials  are  L.  C." 

Billie  felt  himself  flushing.  "What  makes  you 
think  that,  Nick?" 

Bolt  walked  to  a  cupboard  and  unlocked  it.  His 
back  was  toward  the  cattleman,  but  the  latter  could 
see  him  take  something  from  a  shelf.  Turning 
quickly,  the  sheriff  tossed  a  hat  upon  the  table. 

"Ever  see  this  before?" 

Mac  picked  it  up.  His  fingers  were  not  quite 
steady,  for  a  great  dread  drenched  his  heart  like  a 
rush  of  icy  water.  Upon  that  gray  felt  hat  with 
the  pinched  crown  was  stamped  the  individuality — 
and  the  initials — of  Luck  Cullison. 

"Don't  know  as  I  recognize  it,"  he  lied,  not  very 
readily.  "Not  to  know  it.  Why?" 

"Thought  perhaps  you  might  know  it.  The 
hold-up  dropped  it  while  getting  away." 

Mackenzie's  eyes  flinched.  "Dropped  it  How 
was  that?" 

"A  man  happened  to  come  along  San  Miguel 
street  just  as  the  robber  swung  to  his  horse.  He 
heard  the  cries  of  the  men  inside,  guessed  what 
was  doing,  and  exchanged  shots  with  the  mis 
creant.  He  shot  this  hat  off  the  fellow's  head." 

"The  Sentinel  didn't  tell  any  such  a  story." 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND   STRAIGHT 

"I  didn't  give  that  detail  to  the  editor." 

"Who  was  the  man  that  shot  the  robber?'1 

"Cass  Fendrick." 

"But  he  didn't  claim  to  recognize  the  hold-up?" 
Mackenzie  forced  himself  to  ask  this  in  spite  of  his 
fears. 

"Not  for  certain." 

"Then  he— he  had  a  guess." 

"Yes,  Mac.  He  guessed  a  man  whose  initials 
are  the  same  as  those  in  that  hat." 

"Who  do  you  mean,  Nick?" 

"I  don't  need  to  tell  you  that.    You  know  who." 

"If  you  mean  Luck  Cullison,  it's  a  damned  lie," 
exploded  the  cattleman.  He  was  furious  with  him 
self,  for  he  felt  now  that  he  had  been  unsuspect 
ingly  helping  to  certify  the  suspicions  of  the  sher 
iff.  Like  an  idiot,  he  had  let  out  much  that  told 
heavily  against  his  friend. 

"I  hope  so." 

"Cass  Fendrick  is  not  on  good  terms  with  him. 
We  all  kfiow  that.  Luck  has  got  him  in  a  hole.  I 
wouldn't  put  it  a  bit  above  Cass  to  lie  if  he  thought 
it  would  hurt  Luck.  Tell  you  it's  a  damned  con 
spiracy.  Man,  can't  you  see  that?" 

"What  about  this  hat,  with  the  two  holes  shot 
through  the  rim?" 

"Sho !  We  all  wear  hats  just  like  that.  Look  at 
mine."  Billie  held  it  out  eagerly. 

164 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

"Has  yours  an  L.  C.  stamped  in  the  sweat 
band?"  Bolt  asked  with  a  smile. 

"I  know  you  ain't  his  friend,  Nick.  But  you 
want  to  be  fair  to  him  even  if  he  did  oppose  your 
election."  Mackenzie  laid  an  appealing  hand  on 
the  knee  of  the  man  seated  opposite  him. 

"I'm  sheriff  of  Papago  County.  It  doesn't  make 
any  difference  who  worked  for  or  against  me,  Bil- 
lie.  I  was  elected,  and  I'm  going  to  enforce  the 
law." 

"And  you  think  Luck  would  do  a  fool  thing  like 
this?" 

"I  didn't  say  I  thought  so,  but  it's  my  business 
not  to  overlook  any  bets." 

"But  you  do  believe  it.    Now,  don't  you  ?" 

"Since  you've  got  to  have  an  answer — yes,  I  do." 

"By  heaven,  I'd  as  lief  think  I  did  it  myself." 

"You're  a  good  friend,"  Bolt  conceded.  "By 
the  way,  I've  got  to  pay  for  some  supplies  this 
morning.  Can  you  cash  a  check  for  a  hundred  ?" 

"I  reckon  so."  Mackenzie  drew  from  his  pocket 
the  roll  Cullison  had  given  him  two  hours  before. 
He  peeled  five  twenties  from  it.  The  sheriff  ob 
served  that  the  prevailing  denomination  was  the 
same. 

"Get  these  from  Luck?"  he  asked  carelessly. 

The  cattleman  stared  at  him,  and  the  suspicion 
grew  on  him  that  he  had  been  trapped  again. 

165 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

"Why  do  you  ask?" 

"Because  it  happens  the  bills  stolen  from  the 
W.  &  S.  were  all  twenties." 

"No,  I  didn't  get  them  from  Cullison.  This  is 
money  I  had,"  he  answered  sullenly. 

"Then  I  dare  say  you  can  let  me  see  the  money 
you  got  from  him." 

"He  paid  me  by  check." 

"Banked  it  yet?" 

"That's  my  business,  Nick." 

"And  mine,  Billie.  I  can  find  out  from  the  bank 
if  you  have.  Besides,  I  happen  to  know  that  Luck's 
bank  account  is  overdrawn." 

"Some  one  has  been  at  you  to  prejudice  you, 
Bolt." 

"Nobody  but  Luck  Cullison  himself — and  his 
actions." 

From  the  office  of  the  sheriff,  Mackenzie  wan 
dered  to  the  club  in  search  of  Luck.  He  was  thor 
oughly  dispirited,  both  dreaded  to  meet  Luck,  and 
yet  was  anxious  to  do  so.  For  he  wanted  to  warn 
him,  wanted  to  see  him  fall  into  one  of  his  chill 
rages  when  he  told  him  there  were  suspicions 
against  him. 

Cullison  had  left  the  club,   but  Alec  Flandrau 
was  still  there.    Billie  drew  him  into  a  corner, 
learned  that  Luck  had  just  settled  with  him. 

"Anyone  see  him  give  it  to  you,  Alec?" 
1 66 


CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT 

"No.  He  took  me  upstairs  to  the  library  and! 
paid  me." 

"In  bills  r 

"Yes— in  twenties." 

"For  God's  sake,  don't  tell  anybody  that."  In  a 
dozen  jerky  sentences  the  owner  of  the  Fiddleback 
told  Flandrau  of  the  suspicions  of  the  sheriff. 

Together  they  went  in  search  of  Luck.  But 
though  they  looked  for  him  all  day,  he  was  not  to 
be  found.  They  might  have  concluded  he  had  rid 
den  out  to  the  ranch,  but  his  horse  was  still  at  the 
stable  where  he  had  left  it. 

The  last  that  had  been  seen  of  him  Luck  was 
walking  along  the  plaza  toward  the  hotel,  not  a 
hundred  and  fifty  yards  from  the  latter.  A  dozen 
men  had  spoken  to  him  in  the  distance  of  a  block. 
But  he  had  not  been  seen  to  reach  his  hotel.  He 
had  not  called  for  his  room  key.  Somehow  he  had 
vanished,  and  none  could  tell  how  or  where. 

To  Bolt  his  disappearance  was  as  good  as  a  con 
fession  of  guilt.  He  searched  Luck's  room  at  the 
hotel.  Among  other  things,  he  found  an  old  en 
velope  with  interesting  data  penciled  on  it. 

Before  nightfall  the  word  was  whispered  all  over 
Saguache  that  Luck  Cullison,  pioneer  cattleman  and 
former  sheriff,  was  suspected  of  the  W.  &  S.  Ex 
press  robbery  and  had  fled  to  save  himself  from 
arrest.  At  first  men  marveled  that  one  so  well 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

known  and  so  popular,  one  who  had  been  so  promi 
nent  in  affairs,  could  be  suspected  of  such  a  crime, 
but  as  they  listened  to  the  evidence  and  saw  it  fall 
like  blocks  of  a  building  into  place,  the  conviction 
grew  that  he  was  the  masked  bandit  wanted  by  the 
sheriff. 


CHAPTER  IV 
KATE  USES   HER   QUIRT 

Red-headed  Bob  Cullison  finished  making  the 
diamond  hitch  and  proudly  called  his  cousin  Kate 
to  inspect  the  packhorse. 

"You  never  saw  the  hitch  thrown  better,  sis,"  he 
bragged,  boy-like.  "Uncle  Luck  says  I  do  it  well 
as  he  can." 

"It's  fine,  Bob,"  his  cousin  agreed,  with  the 
proper  enthusiasm  in  her  dark  eyes.  "You'll  have 
to  teach  me  how  to  do  it  one  of  these  days." 

She  was  in  a  khaki  riding  skirt,  and  she  pulled 
herself  to  the  saddle  of  her  own  horse.  From  this 
position  she  gave  him  final  instructions  before  leav 
ing.  "Stay  around  the  house,  Bob.  Dad  will  call 
the  ranch  up  this  morning  probably,  and  I  want 
you  to  be  where  you  can  hear  the  'phone  ring. 
Tell  him  about  that  white-faced  heifer,  and  to  be 
sure  to  match  the  goods  I  gave  him.  You'll  find 
dinner  set  out  for  you  on  the  dining-room  table." 
1  It  had  been  on  Wednesday  morning  that  Luck 
Cullison  disappeared  from  the  face  of  the  earth. 
Before  twenty-four  hours  the  gossip  was  being 

169 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

whispered  in  the  most  distant  canons  of  Papago 
County.  The  riders  of  the  Circle  C  knew  it,  but 
none  of  them  had  yet  told  either  Bob  or  Kate. 

Now  it  was  Friday  morning  and  Kate  was  be 
ginning  to  wonder  why  her  father  did  not  call  her 
up.  Could  it  be  that  Soapy  Stone  was  pulling  off 
his  train  robbery  at  Tin  Cup  and  her  father  so  busy 
that  he  could  not  take  time  to  ride  to  a  telephone 
station?  She  did  not  like  to  leave  the  ranch  just 
now,  even  for  a  few  hours,  but  other  business  called 
her  away.  Sweeney  was  holding  down  the  fort  at 
the  Del  Oro  against  Fendrick's  sheepherders,  and 
his  weekly  supply  of  provisions  had  to  be  taken  to 
him.  Since  she  wanted  to  see  with  her  own  eyes 
how  things  were  getting  along  at  the  canon,  she 
was  taking  the  supplies  in  person. 

It  was  a  beautiful  morning,  even  for  Arizona. 
The  soft  air  was  at  its  winiest  best.  The  spring 
rains  had  carpeted  the  hills  with  an  unusually  fine 
grass,  and  the  summer  suns  had  not  yet  burnt  this 
to  the  crisp  brown  of  August.  Her  young  heart 
expanded  with  the  very  joy  of  life.  Oh,  how  good 
it  was  to  be  alive  in  a  world  of  warm  sunshine,  of 
blue,  unflecked  sky,  and  of  cool,  light  breezes. 
Swifts  basked  on  the  rocks  or  darted  like  arrows 
for  safety,  and  lay  palpitating  with  suspense.  The 
clear  call  of  the  quails  sounded  to  right  and  left  of 
To  her  eager  consciousness  it  was  as  if  some 
170 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

bath  of  splendor  had  poured  down  overnight  upon 
the  old  earth. 

She  rode  from  sunlight  into  shadow  and  from 
shadow  to  sunlight  again,  winding  along  the  hill 
trail  that  took  her  toward  the  Del  Oro.  After 
hours  of  travel  she  came  to  the  saddle  from  which' 
one  looked  down  to  the  gap  in  the  canon  walls  that 
had  been  the  common  watering  place  of  all  men's 
cattle,  but  now  was  homesteaded  by  her  father.  Far 
below  her  it  lay,  a  dwarfed  picture  with  detail 
blurred  to  a  vague  impressionistic  map.  She  could 
see  the  hut,  the  fence  line  running  parallel  to  the 
stream  on  the  other  side,  some  grazing  cattle, 
Sweeney's  horse  in  the  corral. 

The  piteous  bleating  of  a  lamb  floated  to  her. 
Kate  dismounted  and  made  her  way  toward  the 
sound.  A  pathetic  little  huddle  of  frightened  life 
tried  to  struggle  free  at  her  approach.  The  slim 
leg  of  the  lamb  had  become  wedged  at  the  inter 
section  of  several  rocks  in  such  a  way  that  it  could 
not  be  withdrawn. 

Kate  pulled  the  boulder  away,  and  released  the 
prisoner.  It  looked  at  her  and  bleated  without  at 
tempting  to  move.  She  took  the  soft,  woolly  crea 
ture  in  her  arms,  and  examined  the  wounded  limb, 
all  torn  and  raw  from  its  efforts  to  escape.  A 
wound,  she  recalled,  ought  to  be  washed  with  cold 
water  and  bound.  Returning  to  her  horse,  she  put 

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CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

the  little  animal  in  front  of  the  saddle  and  contin 
ued  on  the  trail  that  led  down  to  the  river. 

Sweeney  came  out  from  the  cabin  and  hailed  her. 
He  was  a  squat,  weather-beaten  man,  who  had  rid 
den  for  her  father  ever  since  she  could  remember. 

"What  in  Mexico  you  got  there?"  he  asked  in 
surprise. 

She  explained  the  circumstances  under  which  she 
had  found  the  lamb. 

"And  what  you  aiming  to  do  with  it?" 

"I'm  going  to  tie  up  its  leg  and  take  it  across 
the  river.  Some  of  the  C.  F.  herders  are  sure  to 
find  it  before  night." 

"Sho!  What  are  you  fooling  with  Cass  Fen- 
drick's  sheep  for?"  he  grumbled. 

"It  isn't  a  sheep,  but  a  lamb.  And  I'm  not  going 
to  see  it  suffer,  no  matter  who  owns  it." 

She  was  already  walking  toward  the  river.  Pro- 
testingly  he  followed,  and  lent  a  hand  at  tying  up 
the  leg  with  the  girl's  handkerchief. 

"I'll  just  ride  across  and  leave  it  outside  the 
fence,"  she  said. 

"Lemme  go.    I  know  the  river  better." 

Sweeney  did  not  wait  for  her  assent,  but  swung 
to  the  saddle.  She  handed  him  the  lamb,  and  he 
forded  the  stream.  At  no  place  did  the  water  come 
above  the  fetlocks  of  the  horse. 

172 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

"I'm  so  glad  you  know  the  dangerous  places.  Be 
careful  you  don't  drown,"  she  mocked. 

The  rider's  laughter  rang  back  to  her.  One  of 
her  jokes  went  a  long  way  with  Sweeney.  The 
danger  of  the  river  had  been  the  flimsiest  of  ex 
cuses.  What  he  had  been  afraid  of  was  that  one 
of  Fendrick's  herders  might  be  lurking  in  some 
arroyo  beyond  the  fence.  There  was  little  chance 
that  he  would  dare  hurt  her,  but  he  might  shout 
something  unpleasant. 

In  point  of  fact,  Sweeney  saw  some  one  disap 
pear  into  a  wash  as  he  reached  the  fence.  The  rider 
held  up  the  lamb,  jabbered  a  sentence  of  broncho 
Spanish  at  the  spot  where  the  man  had  been,  put 
down  his  bleating  burden,  and  cantered  back  to  his 
own  side  of  the  river  without  unnecessary  delay. 
No  bullets  had  yet  been  fired  in  the  Cullison-Fen- 
drick  feud,  but  a  "greaser"  was  liable  to  do  any 
thing,  according  to  the  old  puncher's  notion.  Any 
how,  he  did  not  want  to  be  a  temptation  to  anyone 
with  a  gun  in  his  hand. 

An  hour  later,  Kate,  on  the  return  trip,  topped 
the  rise  where  she  had  found  the  lamb.  Pulling  up 
her  pony,  to  rest  the  horse  from  its  climb,  she 
gazed  back  across  the  river  to  the  rolling  ridges 
among  which  lay  the  C.  F.  ranch.  Oddly  enough, 
she  had  never  seen  Cass  Fendrick.  He  had  come 

173 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

to  Papago  County  a  few  years  before,  and  had 
bought  the  place  from  an  earlier  settler.  In  the 
disagreement  that  had  fallen  between  the  two  men, 
she  was  wholly  on  the  side  of  her  father.  Some 
times  she  had  wondered  what  manner  of  man  this 
Cass  Fendrick  might  be ;  disagreeable,  of  course,  but 
after  precisely  what  fashion. 

"Your  property,  I  believe,  Miss  Cullison." 

She  turned  at  sound  of  the  suave,  amused  drawl, 
and  looked  upon  a  dark,  slim  young  man  of  pic 
turesque  appearance.  He  was  bowing  to  her  with 
an  obvious  intention  of  overdoing  it.  Voice  and 
manner  had  the  habit  of  the  South  rather  than  of 
the  West.  A  kind  of  indolent  irony  sat  easily  upon 
the  swarthy  face  crowned  with  a  black  sleek  head 
of  hair. 

Her  instinct  told  the  girl  who  he  was.  She  did 
not  need  to  ask  herself  any  longer  what  Cass  Fen 
drick  looked  like. 

He  was  holding  out  to  her  the  bloodstained  ker 
chief  that  had  been  tied  to  the  lamb's  leg. 

"I  didn't  care  to  have  it  returned,"  she  told  him 
With  cold  civility. 

"Now,  if  you'd  only  left  a  note  to  say  so,  it 
would  have  saved  me  a  quite  considerable  climb," 
he  suggested. 

In  spite  of  herself  a  flicker  of  amusement  lit  her 
eyes.  She  had  a  sense  of  humor,  "I  did  not  think 

174 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

of  that,  and  since  you  have  troubled  to  return  it  to 
me,  I  can  only  say  thank  you." 

She  held  out  her  hand  for  the  kerchief,  but 
he  did  not  move.  "I  don't  know  but  what  I'll 
keep  it,  after  all,  for  a  souvenir.  Just  to 
remind  me  that  Luck  Cullison's  daughter  went 
out  of  her  way  to  help  one  of  Cass  Fendrick's 
sheep." 

She  ignored  his  sardonic  mockery.  "I  don't  let 
live  creatures  suffer  when  I  can  help  it.  Are  you 
going  to  give  me  my  handkerchief?" 

"Haven't  made  up  my  mind  yet.  Perhaps  I'll 
have  it  washed  and  bring  it  home  to  you." 

She  decided  that  he  was  trying  to  flirt  with  her, 
and  turned. the  head  of  her  horse  to  start. 

"Now  your  father  has  pulled  his  freight,  I  ex 
pect  it  will  be  safe  to  call,"  he  added. 

The  bridle  rein  tightened.  "What  nonsense  are 
you  saying  about  my  father  ?" 

"No  news,  Miss  Cullison ;  just  what  everybody  is 
saying,  that  he  has  gone  to  cover  on  account  of  the 
hold-up." 

A  chill  fear  drenched  her  heart.  "Do  you  mean 
the  hold-up  of  the  Limited  at  Tin  Cup?" 

"No,  I  don't."  He  looked  at  her  sharply.  "Mean 
to  say  you  haven't  heard  of  the  hold-up  of  the  W. 
&  S.  Express  Company  at  Saguache?" 

"No.    When  was  it?" 

175 


CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT 

"Tuesday  night.  The  man  got  away  witft 
twenty  thousand  dollars." 

"And  what  has  my  father  to  do  with  that?"  she 
demanded  haughtily. 

A  satisfied  spleen  purred  in  his  voice.  "My  dear 
young  lady,  that  is  what  everyone  is  asking." 

"What  do  you  mean?  Say  it."  There  was  fear 
as  well  as  anger  in  her  voice.  Had  her  father 
somehow  got  into  trouble  trying  to  save  Sam?" 

"Oh,  I'm  saying  nothing.  But  what  Sheriff  Bolt 
means  is  that  when  he  gets  his  handcuffs  on  Luck 
Cullison,  he'll  have  the  man  that  can  tell  him  where 
that  twenty  thousand  is." 

"It's  a  lie." 

He  waved  his  hand  airily,  as  one  who  declined 
responsibility  in  the  matter,  but  his  dark,  satur 
nine  face  sparkled  with  malice. 

"Maybe  so.  Seems  to  be  some  evidence,  but  I 
reckon  he  can  explain  that  away — when  he  comes 
back.  The  hold-up  dropped  a  hat  with  the  initials 
L.  C.  in  the  band,  since  identified  as  his.  He  had 
lost  a  lot  of  money  at  poker.  Next  day  he  paid  it. 
He  had  no  money  in  the  bank,  but  maybe  he  found 
it  growing  on  a  cactus  bush." 

"You  liar!"  she  panted,  eyes  blazing. 

"I'll  take  that  from  you,  my  dear,  because  you 
look  so  blamed  pretty  when  you're  mad;  but  I 

176 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

wouldn't  take  it  from  him — from  your  father,  who 
is  hiding  out  in  the  hills  somewhere." 

Anger  uncurbed  welled  from  her  in  an  inarticu 
late  cry.  He  had  come  close  to  her,  and  was  stand 
ing  beside  the  stirrup,  one  bold  hand  upon  the  rein. 
Her  quirt  went  swiftly  up  and  down,  cut  like  a 
thin  bar  of  red-hot  iron  across  his  uplifted  face. 
He  stumbled  back,  half  blind  with  the  pain.  Be 
fore  he  could  realize  what  had  happened  the  spur 
on  her  little  boot  touched  the  side  of  the  pony,  and 
it  was  off  with  a  bound.  She  was  galloping  wildly 
down  the  trail  toward  home. 

He  looked  after  her,  fingers  caressing  the  welt 
that  burned  his  cheek. 

"You'll  pay  for  that,  Kate  Cullison,"  he  said 
aloud  to  himself. 

Anger  stung  him,  but  deeper  than  his  rage  was  a 
growing  admiration.  How  she  had  lashed  out  at 
him  because  he  had  taunted  her  of  her  father.  By 
Jove,  a  girl  like  that  would  be  worth  taming!  His 
cold  eyes  glittered  as  he  put  the  bloodstained  ker 
chief  in  his  pocket.  She  was  not  through  with  him 
yet — not  by  a  good  deal. 


177 


CHAPTER  V 

"AIN'T     SHE     THE     GAMEST     LITTLE     THOR 
OUGHBRED?" 

Kate  galloped  into  the  ranch  plaza  around  which 
the  buildings  were  set,  slipped  from  her  pony,  and 
ran  at  once  to  the  telephone.  Bob  was  on  a  side 
porch  mending  a  bridle. 

"Have  you  heard  anything  from  dad?"  she  cried 
through  the  open  door. 

"Nope,"  he  answered,  hammering  down  a  rivet. 

Kate  called  up  the  hotel  where  Maloney  was 
staying  at  Saguache,  but  could  not  get  him.  She 
tried  the  Del  Mar,  where  her  father  and  his  friends 
always  put  up  when  in  town.  She  asked  in  turn 
for  Mackenzie,  for  Yesler,  for  Alec  Flandrau. 

While  she  waited  for  an  answer,  the  girl  moved 
nervously  about  the  room.  She  could  not  sit  down 
or  settle  herself  at  anything.  For  some  instinct 
told  her  that  Fendrick's  taunt  was  not  a  lie  cut  out 
of  whole  cloth. 

The  bell  rang.  Instantly  she  was  at  the  tele 
phone.  Mackenzie  was  at  the  other  end  of  the  line. 

"Oh,  Uncle  Mac."  She  had  called  him  uncle 
ever  since  she  could  remember.  "What  is  it  they 

178 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

are  saying  about  dad?     Tell  me  it  isn't  true,"  she 
begged 

"A  pack  of  lees,  lassie."  His  Scotch  idiom  and 
accent  had  succumbed  to  thirty  years  on  the  plains, 
but  when  he  became  excited  it  rose  triumphant 
through  the  acquired  speech  of  the  Southwest. 

"Then  is  he  there — in  Saguache,  I  mean." 

"No-o.    He's  not  in  town." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"Hoots!  He'll  just  have  gone  somewhere  on 
business." 

He  did  not  bluff  well.  Through  the  hearty  as 
surance  she  pierced  to  the  note  of  trouble  in  his 
voice. 

"You're  hiding  something  from  me,  Uncle  Mac. 
I  won't  have  it.  You  tell  me  the  truth — the  whole 
truth." 

In  three  sentences  he  sketched  it  for  her,  and 
when  he  had  finished  he  knew  by  the  sound  of  her 
voice  that  she  was  greatly  frightened. 

"Something  has  happened  to  him.  I'm  coming 
to  town." 

"If  you  feel  you'd  rather.  Take  the  stage  in  to- 
tnorrow." 

"No.  I'm  coming  to-night.  I'll  bring  Bob. 
Save  us  two  rooms  at  the  hotel." 

"Better  wait  till  to-morrow.  Forty  miles  is  a 
long  ride,  lass." 

179 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

"No,  I  can't  wait.  Have  Curly  Flandrau  come 
to  the  Del  Mar  if  he's  in  town — and  Dick  Maloney, 
too.  That's  all.  Good-by." 

She  turned  to  her  cousin,  who  was  standing  big- 
eyed  at  her  elbow. 

"What  is  it,  Kate?  Has  anything  happened  to 
Uncle  Luck?" 

She  swallowed  a  lump  in  her  throat.  "Dad's 
gone,  Bob.  Nobody  knows  where.  They  say — the 
liars — that  he  robbed  the  W.  &  S.  Express  Com 
pany." 

Suddenly  her  face  went  down  into  her  forearm 
on  the  table  and  sobs  began  to  rack  her  body.  The 
boy,  staggered  at  this  preposterous  charge,  could 
only  lay  his  hand  on  her  shoulder  and  beg  her  not 
to  cry. 

"It'll  be  all  right,  Kate.  Wait  till  Uncle  Luck 
comes  back.  He'll  make  'em  sick  for  talking  about 
him." 

"But  suppose  he — suppose  he "  She  dared 

not  complete  what  was  in  her  mind,  that  perhaps 
he  had  been  ambushed  by  some  of  his  enemies  and 
killed. 

"You  bet  they'll  drop  into  a  hole  and  pull  it  in 
after  them  when  Uncle  Luck  shows  up,"  the  boy 
bragged  with  supreme  confidence. 

His  cousin  nodded,  choking  down  her  sobs.  "Of 
course.  It — it'll  come  out  all  right — as  soon  as  he 

180 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 


out  what  they're  saying.  Saddle  two  horses 
right  away,  Bob." 

"Sure.    We'll  soon  find  where  he  is,  I  bet  you." 

The  setting  sun  found  their  journey  less  than 
half  done.  The  brilliant  rainbow  afterglow  of  sun 
set  faded  to  colder  tints,  and  then  disappeared.  The 
purple  saw-toothed  range  softened  to  a  violet  hue. 
With  the  coming  of  the  moon  the  hard,  dry  desert 
lost  detail,  took  on  a  loveliness  of  tone  and  out 
line  that  made  it  an  idealized  painting  of  itself. 
Myriads  of  stars  were  out,  so  that  the  heavens 
seemed  sown  with  them  as  an  Arizona  hillside  is 
in  spring  with  yellow  poppies. 

Kate  was  tortured  with  anxiety,  but  the  surpass 
ing  beauty  that  encompassed  them  was  somehow  a 
comfort  to  her.  Deep  within  her  something  denied 
that  her  father  could  be  gone  out  of  a  world  so 
good.  And  if  he  were  alive,  Curly  Flandrau  would 
find  him  —  Curly  and  Dick  between  them.  Luck 
Cullison  had  plenty  of  good  friends  who  would  not 
stand  by  and  see  him  wronged. 

Any  theory  of  his  disappearance  that  accepted  his 
guilt  did  not  occur  to  her  mind  for  an  instant.  The 
two  had  been  very  dose  to  each  other.  Luck  had 
been  in  the  habit  of  saying  smilingly  that  she  was 
his  majordomo,  his  right  bower.  Some  share  of 
his  lawless  temperament  she  inherited,  enough  to 
feel  sure  that  this  particular  kind  of  wrongdoing 

181 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

was  impossible  for  him.  He  was  reckless,  some 
times  passionate,  but  she  did  not  need  to  reassure 
herself  that  he  was  scrupulously  honest. 

This  brought  her  back  to  the  only  other  tenable 
hypothesis — foul  play.  And  from  this  she  shrank 
with  a  quaking  heart.  For  surely  if  his  enemies 
wished  to  harm  him  they  would  destroy  him,  and 
this  was  a  conclusion  against  which  she  fought  des 
perately. 

The  plaza  clock  boomed  ten  strokes  as  they  rode 
into  Saguache.  Mackenzie  was  waiting  for  them 
on  the  steps  of  the  hotel. 

"Have  they — has  anything  been ?" 

The  owner  of  the  Fiddleback  shook  his  grizzled 
head.  "Not  yet.  Didn't  you  meet  Curly?" 

"No." 

"He  rode  out  to  come  in  with  you,  but  if  he 
didn't  meet  you  by  ten  he  was  to  come  back.  You 
took  the  north  road,  I  reckon?" 

"Yes." 

His  warm  heart  was  wrung  for  the  young 
woman  whose  fine  eyes  stared  with  dumb  agony 
from  a  face  that  looked  very  white  in  the  shining 
moonlight.  He  put  an  arm  around  her  shoulders, 
and  drew  her  into  the  hotel  with  cheerful  talk. 

"Come  along,  Bob.  We're  going  to  tuck  away 
a  good  supper  first  off.  While  you're  eating,  I'll 
tell  you  all  there  is  to  be  told" 

182 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

Kate  opened  her  lips  to  say  that  she  was  not  hun 
gry  and  could  not  possibly  eat  a  bite,  but  she 
thought  better  of  it.  Bob  had  tasted  nothing  since 
noon,  and  of  course  he  must  be  fed. 

The  lad  fell  to  with  an  appetite  grief  had  not 
dulled.  His  cousin  could  at  first  only  pick  at  what 
was  set  before  her.  It  seemed  heartless  to  be  sit 
ting  down  in  comfort  to  so  good  a  supper  while  her 
father  was  in  she  knew  not  how  great  distress. 
Grief  swelled  in  her  throat,  and  forced  back  the 
food  she  was  trying  to  eat. 

Mackenzie  broke  off  his  story  to  remonstrate. 
"This  won't  do  at  all,  Kate.  If  you're  going  to 
help  find  Luck,  you've  got  to  keep  yourself  fit. 
Now,  you  try  this  chicken,  honey." 

"I— just  can't,  Uncle  Mac." 

"But  you  need  it." 

"I  know,"  the  girl  confessed,  and  as  she  said  it 
broke  down  again  into  soft  weeping. 

Mac  let  her  have  her  cry  out,  petting  her  awk 
wardly.  Presently  she  dried  her  eyes,  set  at  her 
Supper  in  a  business-like  way,  heard  the  story  to  an 
end  quietly,  and  volunteered  one  heartbroken  com 
ment. 

"As  if  father  could  do  such  a  thing." 

The  cattleman  agreed  eagerly.  There  were  times 
when  he  was  full  of  doubt  on  that  point,  but  he  was 
not  going  to  let  her  know  it. 

183 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

Curly  came  into  the  room,  and  the  girl  rose  to 
meet  him.  He  took  her  little  hand  in  his  tanned, 
muscular  one,  and  somehow  from  his  grip  she 
gathered  strength.  He  would  do  all  that  could  be 
done  to  find  her  father,  just  as  he  had  done  so 
•much  to  save  her  brother. 

"I'm  so  glad  you've  come,"  she  said  simply. 

"I'm  glad  you're  glad,"  he  smiled  cheerfully. 

He  knew  she  had  been  crying,  that  she  was  suf 
fering  cruelly,  but  he  offered  her  courage  rather 
than  maudlin  sympathy.  Hope  seemed  to  flow 
through  her  veins  at  the  meeting  of  the  eyes. 
Whatever  a  man  could  do  for  her  would  be  done  by 
Curly. 

They  talked  the  situation  over  together. 

"As  it  looks  to  me,  we've  got  to  find  out  two 
things — first,  what  has  become  of  your  father,  and, 
second,  who  did  steal  that  money." 

"Now  you're  talking,"  Mackenzie  agreed.  "I 
always  did  say  you  had  a  good  head,  Curly." 

"I  don't  see  it  yet,  but  there's  some  link  between 
the  two  things.  I  mean  between  the  robbery  and 
his  disappearance." 

"How  do  you  mean?"  Kate  asked. 

"We'll  say  the  robbers  were  his  enemies — some 
of  the  Soapy  Stone  outfit  maybe.  They  have  got 
him  out  of  the  way  to  satisfy  their  grudge  and  to 
make  people  think  he  did  it.  Unfortunately  there 

184 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

is  evidence  that  makes  it  look  as  if  he  might  have 
done  it — what  they  call  corroborating  testimony." 

Billie  Mackenzie  scratched  his  gray  poll.  "Hold 
^n,  Curly.  This  notion  of  a  link  between  the 
hcrld-up  and  Luck's  leaving  is  what  the  other  side 
is  tying  to.  Don't  we  want  to  think  different  from 
them?" 

"We  do.  They  think  he  is  guilty.  We  know  he 
isn't." 

"What  does  Sheriff  Bolt  think?" 

Curly  waved  the  sheriff  aside.  "It  don't  matter 
what  he  thinks,  Miss  Kate.  He  says  he  thinks 
Luck  was  mixed  up  in  the  hold-up.  Maybe  that's 
what  he  thinks,  but  we  don't  want  to  forget  that 
Cass  Fendrick  made  him  sheriff  and  your  father 
fought  him  to  a  fare-you-well." 

"Then  we  can't  expect  any  help  from  him." 

"Not  much.  He  ain't  a  bad  fellow,  Bolt  ain't. 
He'll  be  square,  but  his  notions  are  liable  to  be 
warped." 

"I'd  like  to  talk  with  him,"  the  young  woman 
announced. 

"All  right,"  Mackenzie  assented.  "To-morrow 
mo'ning " 

"No,  to-night,  Uncle  Mac." 

The  cattleman  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  Her 
voice  rang  with  decision.  Her  slight  figure  seemed 
compact  of  energy  and  resolution.  Was  this  the 

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CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

girl  who  had  been  in  helpless  tears  not  ten  min 
utes  before? 

"I'll  see  if  he's  at  his  office.  Maybe  he'll  come 
up,"  Curly  said. 

"No.  I'll  go  down  to  the  courthouse  if  he's 
there." 

Flandrau  got  Bolt  on  the  telephone  at  his  room. 
After  a  little  grumbling  he  consented  to  meet  Miss 
Cullison  at  his  office. 

"Bob,  you  must  go  to  bed.  You're  tired  out," 
his  cousin  told  him. 

"I  ain't,  either,"  he  denied  indignantly.  "Tired 
nothing.  I'm  going  with  you." 

Curly  caught  Kate's  glance,  and  she  left  the  boy 
to  him. 

"Look  here,  Bob.  We're  at  the  beginning  of  a 
big  job.  Some  of  us  have  to  keep  fresh  all  the 
time.  We'll  work  in  relays.  To-night  you  sleep  so 
as  to  be  ready  to-morrow." 

This  way  of  putting  it  satisfied  the  boy.  He  re 
luctantly  consented  to  go  to  bed,  and  was  sound 
asleep  almost  as  soon  as  his  head  struck  the  pillow. 

At  the  office  of  the  sheriff,  Kate  cut  to  essen 
tials  as  soon  as  introductions  were  over. 

"Do  you  think  my  father  robbed  the  W.  &  S. 
Express  Company,  Mr.  Bolt?"  she  asked. 

Her  plainness  embarrassed  the  officer. 

"Let's  look  at  the  facts,  Miss  Cullison,"  he  began. 
186 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

amiably.  "Then  you  tell  me  what  you  would  think 
in  my  place.  Your  father  needed  money  mighty 
bad.  There's  no  doubt  at  all  about  that.  Here's  an 
envelope  on  which  he  had  written  a  list  of  his  debts. 
You'll  notice  they  run  to  just  a  little  more  than 
twenty  thousand.  I  found  this  in  his  bedroom  the 
day  he  disappeared." 

She  took  the  paper,  glanced  at  it  mechanically, 
and  looked  at  the  sheriff  again.  "Well?  Every 
body  wants  money.  Do  they  all  steal  it  ?" 

"Turn  that  envelope  over,  Miss  Cullison.  Notice 
how  he  has  written  there  half  a  dozen  times  in  a 
row,  '$20,000,'  and  just  below  it  twice,  *\V.  &  S. 
Ex.  Co/  Finally,  the  one  word,  To-night/  " 

She  read  it  all,  read  it  with  a  heart  heavy  as  lead, 
and  knew  that  there  he  had  left  in  his  own  strong, 
bold  handwriting  convincing  evidence  against  him 
self.  Still,  she  did  not  doubt  him  in  the  least,  but 
there  could  be  no  question  now  that  he  knew  of 
the  intended  shipment,  that  absent-mindedly  he  had 
jotted  down  this  data  while  he  was  thinking  about 
it  in  connection  with  his  own  debts. 

The  sheriff  went  on  tightening  the  chain  of  evi 
dence  in  a  voice  that  for  all  its  kindness  seemed  to 
her  remorseless  as  fate.  "It  turns  out  that  Mr.  Jor 
dan  of  the  Cattleman's  National  Bank  mentioned 
this  shipment  to  your  father  that  morning.  Mr. 
Cullison  was  trying  to  raise  money  from  him,  but 

187 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

he  couldn't  let  him  have  it.  Every  bank  in  the  city 
refused  him  a  loan.  Yet  next  morning  he  paid  off 
two  thousand  dollars  he  owed  from  a  poker  game." 

"He  must  have  borrowed  the  money  from  some 
one,"  she  said  weakly. 

"That  money  he  paid  in  twenty-dollar  bills.  The 
stolen  express  package  was  in  twenties.  You  know 
yourself  that  this  is  a  gold  country.  Bills  ain't  so 
plentiful." 

The  girl's  hand  went  to  her  heart.  Faith  in  her 
father  was  a  rock  not  to  be  washed  away  by  any 
amount  of  evidence.  What  made  her  wince  was 
the  amount  of  circumstantial  testimony  falling  into 
place  so  inexorably  against  him. 

"Is  that  all?"  she  asked  despairingly. 

"I  wish  it  were,  Miss  Cullison.  But  it's  not.  A 
man  came  round  the  corner  and  shot  at  the  robber 
as  he  was  escaping.  His  hat  fell  off.  Here  it  is." 

As  Kate  took  the  hat  something  seemed  to 
tighten  around  her  heart.  It  belonged  to  her  fa 
ther.  His  personality  was  stamped  all  over  it.  She 
even  recognized  a  coffee  stain  on  the  under  side  of 
the  brim.  There  was  no  need  of  the  initials  L.  C. 
to  tell  her  whose  it  had  been.  A  wave  of  despair 
swept  over  her.  Again  she  was  on  the  verge  of 
breaking  down,  but  controlled  herself  as  with  a 
tight  curb. 

Bolt's  voice  went  on.  "Next  day  your  father  dis- 
188 


CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT 

appeared,  Miss  Cullison.  He  was  here  in  town  all 
morning.  His  friends  knew  that  suspicion  was 
fastening  on  him.  The  inference  is  that  he  daren't 
wait  to  have  the  truth  come  out.  Mind,  I  don't 
say  he's  guilty.  But  it  looks  that  way.  Now,  that's 
my  case.  If  you  were  sheriff  in  my  place,  what 
would  you  do?" 

Her  answer  flashed  back  instantly.  "If  I  knew 
Luck  Cullison,  I  would  be  sure  there  was  a  mistake 
somewhere,  and  I  would  look  for  foul  play.  I 
would  believe  anything  except  that  he  was  guilty — 
anything  in  the  world.  You  know  he  has  ene 
mies." 

The  sheriff  liked  her  spirited  defense  no  less  be 
cause  he  could  not  agree  with  her.  "Yes,  I  know 
that.  The  trouble  is  that  these  incriminating  facts 
don't  come  in  the  main  from  his  enemies." 

"You  say  the  robber  had  on  his  hat,  and  that 
somebody  shot  at  him.  Whoever  it  was  must  know 
the  man  wasn't  father." 

Gently  Bolt  took  this  last  prop  from  her  hope. 
'He  is  almost  sure  the  man  was  your  father." 

A  spark  of  steel  came  into  her  dark  eyes.  "Who 
s  the  man?" 

"His  name  is  Fendrick." 

"Cass  Fendrick?"  She  whipped  the  word  at 
him,  leaning  forward  in  her  chair  rigidly  with  her 
hands  clenched  on  the  arms  of  it.  One  could  nave 

189 


CROOKED    TRAILS   'AND    STRAIGHT 

guessed  that  the  sound  of  the  name  had  unleashed 
a  dormant  ferocity  in  her. 

"Yes..  I  know  he  and  your  father  aren't  friends. 
They  have  had  some  trouble.  For  that  rea 
son  he  was  very  reluctant  to  give  your  father's 


name." 


The  girl  flamed.  "Reluctant !  Don't  you  believe 
it?  He  hates  Father  like  poison."  A  flash  of  in 
spiration  came  to  her.  She  rose,  slim  and  tall  and 
purposeful.  "Cass  Fendrick  is  the  man  you  want, 
and  he  is  the  man  I  want.  He  robbed  the  express 
company,  and  he  has  killed  my  father  or  abducted 
him.  I  know  now.  Arrest  him  to-night." 

"I  have  to  have  evidence,"  Bolt  said  quietly. 

"I  can  give  you  a  motive.  Listen.  Father  ex 
pected  to  prove  up  yesterday  on  his  Del  Oro  claim. 
If  he  had  done  so  Cass  Fendrick's  sheep  would 
have  been  cut  off  from  the  water.  Father  had  to 
be  got  out  of  the  way  not  later  than  Wednesday, 
or  that  man  would  have  been  put  out  of  business. 
He  was  very  bitter  about  it.  He  had  made  threats." 

"It  would  take  more  than  threats  to  get  rid  of 
the  best  fighting  man  in  Arizona,  right  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  day,  in  the  heart  of  the  town,  without  a, 
soul  knowing  about  it."  The  officer  added  with  a 
smile :  "I'd  hate  to  undertake  the  contract,  give 
me  all  the  help  I  wanted." 

"He  was  trapped  somehow,  of  course,"  Curly 
190 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

cut  in.    For  he  was  sure  that  in  no  other  way  could 
Luck  Cullison  have  been  overcome. 

"If  you'll  only  tell  me  how,  Flandrau,"  Bolt  re 
turned. 

"I  don't  know  how,  but  we'll  find  out." 

"I  hope  so." 

Kate  felt  his  doubt,  and  it  was  like  a  spark  to 
powder. 

"Fendrick  is  your  friend.  You  were  elected  by 
his  influence.  Perhaps  you  want  to  prove  that  Fa' 
ther  did  this." 

"The  people  elected  me,  Miss  Cullison,"  an 
swered  Bolt,  with  grave  reproach.  "I  haven't  any 
friends  or  any  enemies  when  it  comes  to  doing  what 
I've  sworn  to  do." 

"Then  you  ought  to  know  Father  couldn't  have 
done  this.  There  is  such  a  thing  as  character.  Luck 
Cullison  simply  couldn't  be  a  thief." 

Mackenzie's  faith  had  been  strengthened  by  the 
insistent  loyalty  of  the  girl.  "That's  right,  Nick. 
Let  me  tell  you  something  else.  Fendrick  knew 
Luck  was  going  to  prove  up  on  Thursday.  He 
heard  him  tell  us  at  the  Round-Up  Club  Tuesday 
morning." 

The  sheriff  summed  up.  "You've  proved  Cass 
had  interests  that  would  be  helped  if  Mr.  Cullison 
were  removed.  But  you  haven't  shaken  the  evi 
dence  against  Luck." 

191 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND   STRAIGHT 

"We've  proved  Cass  Fendrick  had  to  get  Father 
out  of  the  way  on  the  very  day  he  disappeared.  One 
day  later  would  have  been  too  late.  We've  shown 
his  enmity.  Any  evidence  that  rests  on  his  word  is 
no  good.  The  truth  isn't  in  the  man." 

"Maybe  not,  but  he  didn't  make  this  evidence." 

Kate  had  another  inspirational  flash.  "He  did — 
some  of  it.  Somehow  he  got  hold  of  father's  hat, 
and  he  manufactured  a  story  about  shooting  it  from 
the  robber's  head.  But  to  make  his  story  stick  he 
must  admit  he  was  on  the  ground  at  the  time  of 
the  hold-up.  So  he  must  have  known  the  robbery 
was  going  to  take  place.  It's  as  plain  as  old  Run- 
A-Mile's  wart  that  he  knew  of  it  because  he  planned 
it  himself." 

Bolt's  shrewd  eyes  narrowed  to  a  smile.  "You 
prove  to  me  that  Cass  had  your  father's  hat  before 
the  hold-up,  and  I'll  take  some  stock  in  the  story." 

"And  in  the  meantime,"  suggested  Curly. 

"I'll  keep  right  on  looking  for  Luck  Cullison,  but 
I'll  keep  an  eye  on  Cass  Fendrick,  too." 

Kate  took  up  the  challenge  confidently.  "I'll 
prove  he  had  the  hat — at  least  I'll  try  to  pretty 
hard.  It's  the  truth,  and  it  must  come  out  some-j 
how." 

After  he  had  left  her  at  the  hotel,  Curly  walked 
the  streets  with  a  sharp  excitement  tingling  his 
blood.  He  had  lived  his  life  among  men,  and  he 

192 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND   STRAIGHT 

knew  little  about  women  and  their  ways.  But  his 
imagination  seized  avidly  upon  this  slim,  dark  girl 
with  the  fine  eyes  that  could  be  both  tender  and 
ferocious,  with  the  look  of  combined  delicacy  and 
strength  in  every  line  of  her. 

"Ain't  she  the  gamest  little  thoroughbred  ever?" 
he  chuckled  to  himself.  "Stands  the  acid  every 
crack.  Think  of  her  standing  pat  so  game — just 
like  she  did  for  me  that  night  out  at  the  ranch. 
She's  the  best  argument  Luck  has  got." 


CHAPTER  VI 
TWO   HATS   ON   A  RACK 

One  casual  remark  of  Mackenzie  had  given  Kate 
a  clew.  Even  before  she  had  explained  it,  Curly 
caught  the  point  and  began  to  dig  for  the  truth. 
For  though  he  was  almost  a  boy,  the  others  leaned 
on  him  with  the  expectation  that  in  the  absence  oi 
Maloney  he  would  take  the  lead.  Before  they  sep 
arated  for  the  night  he  made  Mackenzie  go  over 
every  detail  he  could  remember  of  the  meeting  be 
tween  Cullison  and  Fendrick  at  the  Round-Up 
Club.  This  was  the  last  time  the  two  men  had  been 
seen  together  in  public,  and  he  felt  it  important 
that  he  should  know  just  what  had  taken  place. 

In  the  morning  he  and  Kate  had  a  talk  with  his 
uncle  on  the  same  subject.  Not  content  with  this, 
he  made  the  whole  party  adjourn  to  the  club  rooms 
so  that  he  mighjt  see  exactly  where  Luck  had  sat 
and  the  different  places  the  sheepman  had  stood 
from  the  time  he  entered  until  the  poker  players 
left. 

Together  Billie  Mackenzie  and  Alec  Flandrau 
dramatized  the  scene  for  the  young  people.  Mac 
personated  the  sheepman,  came  into  the  room,  hung 

194 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

up  his  hat,  lounged  over  to  the  poker  table,  said 
his  little  piece  as  well  as  he  could  remember  it, 
and  passed  into  the  next  room.  Flandrau,  Senior, 
taking  the  role  of  Cullison,  presently  got  up,  lifted 
his  hat  from  the  rack,  and  went  to  the  door. 

With  excitement  trembling  in  her  voice,  the  girl 
asked  an  eager  question.  "Were  their  hats  side  by 
side  like  that  on  adjoining  pegs?" 

Billie  turned  a  puzzled  face  to  his  friend.  "How 
about  that,  Alec?" 

"That's  how  I  remember  it." 

"Same  here,  my  notion  is." 

"Both  gray  hats?"  Curly  cut  in. 

His  uncle  looked  helplessly  at  the  other  man. 
"Can't  be  sure  of  that.  Luck's  was  gray  all  right." 

"Cass  wore  a  gray  hat  too,  seems  to  me,"  Mac 
kenzie  contributed,  scratching  his  gray  hair. 

"Did  Father  hesitate  at  all  about  which  one  to 
take?" 

"No-o.  I  don't  reckon  he  did.  He  had  turned 
to  ask  me  if  I  was  coming — wasn't  looking  at  the 
hats  at  all." 

Curly  looked  at  Kate  and  nodded.  "I  reckon  we 
jknow  how  Cass  got  Mr.  Cullison's  hat.  It  was  left 
on  the  rack." 

"How  do  you  mean  ?"  his  uncle  asked. 

"Don't  you  see?"  the  girl  explained,  her  eyes 
shining  with  excitement.  "Father  took  the  wrong 

195 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

hat.  You  know  how  absent-minded  he  is  some 
times." 

Mackenzie  slapped  his  knee.  "I'll  bet  a  stack  of 
blues  you've  guessed  it." 

"There's  a  way  to  make  sure/'  Curly  said. 

"I  don't  get  you." 

"Fendrick  couldn't  wear  Mr.  Cullison's  hat 
around  without  the  risk  of  someone  remembering  it 
later.  What  would  he  do  then?" 

Kate  beamed.  "Buy  another  at  the  nearest 
store." 

"That  would  be  my  guess.  And  the  nearest  store 
is  the  New  York  Emporium.  We've  got  to  find  out 
whether  he  did  buy  one  there  on  Tuesday  some  time 
after  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning." 

The  girl's  eyes  were  sparkling.  She  bustled  with 
businesslike  energy.  "I'll  go  and  ask  right  away." 

"Don't  you  think  we'd  better  let  Uncle  Alec  find 
out?  He's  not  so  likely  to  stir  up  curiosity,"  Curly 
suggested. 

"That's  right.  Let  me  earn  my  board  and  keep," 
the  owner  of  the  Map  of  Texas  volunteered. 

Within  a  quarter  of  an  hour  Alec  Flandrau  joined 
the  others  at  the  hotel.  He  was  beaming  like  a 
schoolboy  who  has  been  given  an  unexpected  holi 
day. 

"You  kids  are  right  at  the  head  of  the  class  in 
the  detective  game.  Cass  bought  a  brown  hat, 

196 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

about  9:30  in  the  mo'ning.  Paid  five  dollars  for 
it.  Wouldn't  let  them  deliver  the  old  one  but  took 
it  with  him  in  a  paper  sack." 

With  her  lieutenants  flanking  her  Kate  went 
straight  to  the  office  of  the  sheriff.  Bolt  heard  the 
story  out  and  considered  it  thoughtfully. 

"You  win,  Miss  Cullison.  You  haven't  proved 
Fendrick  caused  your  father's  disappearance  by  foul 
play,  and  you  haven't  proved  he  committed  the 
robbery.  Point  of  fact  I  don't  think  he  did  either 
one.  But  it  certainly  looks  like  he  may  possibly 
have  manufactured  evidence." 

Curly  snorted  scornfully.  "You're  letting  your 
friend  down  easy,  Mr.  Bolt.  By  his  own  story  he 
was  on  the  ground  a  minute  after  the  robbery  took 
place.  How  do  we  know  he  wasn't  there  a  minute 
before?  For  if  he  didn't  know  the  hold-up  was 
going  to  occur  why  did  he  bring  Mr.  Cullison's 
hat  with  him  punctured  so  neatly  with  bullet  holes  ?"' 

"I'll  bet  a  thousand  dollars  he  is  at  the  bottom 
of  this  whole  thing,"  Mackenzie  added  angrily. 

The  sheriff  flushed.  "You  gentlemen  are  entitled 
to  your  opinions  just  as  I'm  entitled  to  mine.  You 
haven't  even  proved  he  took  Mr.  Cullison's  hat; 
you've  merely  showed  he  may  have  done  it" 

"We've  given  you  a  motive  and  some  evidence. 
How  much  more  do  you  want?"  Curly  demanded 

"Hold  your  hawses  a  while,  Flandrau,  and  look 
197 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

at  this  thing  reasonable.  You're  all  prejudiced  for 
Cullison  and  against  Fendrick.  Talk  about  evi 
dence!  There's  ten  times  as  much  against  your 
friend  as  there  is  against  Cass." 

"Then  you'll  not  arrest  Fendrick?" 

"When  you  give  me  good  reason  to  do  it,"  Bolt 
returned  doggedly. 

"That's  all  right,  Mr.  Sheriff.  Now  we  know 
where  you  stand,"  Flandrau,  Senior,  said  stiffly. 

The  harassed  official  mopped  his  face  with  a 
bandanna.  "Sho!  You  all  make  me  tired.  I'm 
not  Fendrick's  friend  while  I'm  in  this  office  any 
more  than  I'm  Luck's.  But  I've  got  to  use  my 
judgment,  ain't  I?" 

The  four  adjourned  to  meet  at  the  Del  Mar  for 
a  discussion  of  ways  and  means. 

"We'll  keep  a  watch  on  Fendrick — see  where  he 
goes,  who  he  talks  to,  what  he  does.  Maybe  he'll 
make  a  break  and  give  himself  away,"  Curly  said 
hopefully. 

"But  my  father — we  must  rescue  him  first." 

"As  soon  as  we  find  where  he  is.  Me,  I'm  right 
hopeful  all's  well  with  him.  Killing  him  wouldn't 
help  Cass  any,  because  you  and  Sam  would  prove 
up  on  the  claim.  But  if  he  could  hold  your  father 
a  prisoner  and  get  him  to  sign  a  relinquishment  to 
him  he  would  be  in  a  fine  position." 

198 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

"But  Father  wouldn't  sign.  He  ought  to  know 
that" 

"Not  through  fear  your  father  wouldn't.  But 
if  Fendrick  could  get  at  him  some  way  he  might 
put  down  his  John  Hancock.  With  this  trouble  of 
Sam  still  unsettled  and  the  Tin  Cup  hold-up  to  be 
pulled  off  he  might  sign." 

"If  we  could  only  have  Fendrick  arrested " 

"What  good  would  that  do?  If  he's  guilty  he 
wouldn't  talk.  And  if  he  is  holding  your  father 
somewhere  in  the  hills  it  would  only  be  serving 
notice  that  we  were  getting  warm.  No,  I'm  for  a 
still  hunt.  Let  Cass  ride  around  and  meet  his  part 
ners  in  this  deal.  We'll  keep  an  eye  on  him  all 
right." 

"Maybe  you're  right/'  Kate  admitted  with  a  sigh. 


N 


199 


CHAPTER  VII 
ANONYMOUS   LETTERS 

Sheriff  Bolt,  though  a  politician,  was  an  honest 
man.  It  troubled  him  that  Cullison's  friends  be 
lieved  him  to  be  a  partisan  in  a  matter  of  this 
•sort.  For  which  reason  he  met  more  than  half 
way  Curly's  overtures.  Young  Flandrau  was  in  the 
<office  of  the  sheriff  a  good  deal,  because  he  wanted 
>to  be  kept  informed  of  any  new  developments  in 
the  W.  &  S.  robbery  case. 

It  was  on  one  of  those  occasions  that  Bolt  tossed 
across  to  him  a  letter  he  had  just  opened. 

"I've  been  getting  letters  from  the  village  cut-up 
or  from  some  crank,  I  don't  know  which.  Here's 
a  sample." 

The  envelope,  addressed  evidently  in  a  disguised 
hand,  contained  one  sheet  of  paper.  Upon  this 
jvas  lettered  roughly, 

"Play  the  Jack  of  Hearts." 

Flandrau  looked  up  with  a  suggestion  of  eager 
ness  in  his  eyes. 

"What  do  you  reckon  it  means?"  he  asked. 
200 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

"Search  me.  Like  as  not  it  don't  mean  a  thing, 
The  others  had  just  as  much  sense  as  that  one." 

"Let's  see  the  others." 

"I  chucked  them  into  the  waste  paper  basket. 
One  came  by  the  morning  mail  yesterday  and  one 
by  the  afternoon.  I'm  no  mind  reader,  and  I've  got 
no  time  to  guess  fool  puzzles." 

Curly  observed  that  the  waste  paper  basket  was 
full.  Evidently  it  had  not  been  emptied  for  two 
or  three  days. 

"Mind  if  I  look  for  the  others?"  he  asked. 

Bolt  waved  permission.     "Go  to  it." 

The  young  man  emptied  the  basket  on  the  floor 
and  went  over  its  contents  carefully.  He  found 
three  communications  from  the  unknown  writer. 
Each  of  them  was  printed  by  hand  on  a  sheet  of 
cheap  lined  paper  torn  from  a  scratch  pad.  He 
smoothed  them  out  and  put  them  side  by  side  on 
the  table.  This  was  what  he  read: 

HEARTS  ARE  TRUMPS 

WHEN  IN  DOUBT  PLAY  TRUMPS 

PLAY  TRUMPS  NOW 

There  was  only  the  one  line  to  each  message,  and 
all  of  them  were  plainly  in  the  same  hand.  He 
could  make  out  only  one  thing,  that  someone  was 

201 


CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT 

trying  to  give  the  sheriff  information  in  a  guarded 
way. 

He  was  still  puzzling  over  the  thing  when  a  boy 
came  with  a  special  delivery  letter  for  the  sheriff. 
Bolt  glanced  at  it  and  handed  the  note  to  Curly. 
"Another  billy  doo  from  my  anxious  friend." 
This  time  the  sender  had  been  in  too  urn-ch  of 
a  hurry  to  print  the  words.     They  were  written  in 
a  stiff  hand  by  some  uneducated  person. 

The  Jack  of  Trumps,  to-day 

"Mind  if  I  keep  these?"  Curly  asked. 

"Take  'em  along." 

Flandrau  walked  out  to  the  grandstand  at  the 
fair  grounds  and  sat  down  by  himself  there  to  think 
out  what  connection,  if  any,  these  singular  warn 
ings  might  have  with  the  vanishing  of  Cullison  or 
the  robbery  of  the  W.  &  S.  He  wasted  three 
precious  hours  without  any  result.  Dusk  was  fall 
ing  before  he  returned. 

"Guess  I'll  take  them  to  my  little  partner  and 
give  her  a  whack  at  the  puzzle,"  he  decided. 

Curly  strolled  back  to  town  along  El  Molino 
street  and  down  Main.  He  had  just  crossed  the 
old  Spanish  plaza  when  his  absorbed  gaze  fell  on 
a  sign  that  brought  him  up  short.  In  front  of  a 
cigar  store  stretched  across  the  sidewalk  a  painted 

202 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

picture  of  a  jack  of  hearts.  The  same  name  was  on 
the  window. 

Fifty  yards  behind  him  was  the  Silver  Dollar 
saloon,  where  Luck  Cullison  had  last  been  seen  on 
his  way  to  the  Del  Mar  one  hundred  and  fifty  yards 
in  front  of  him.  Somewhere  within  that  distance 
of  two  hundred  yards  the  owner  of  the  Circle  C 
had  vanished  from  the  sight  of  men.  The  evidence 
showed  he  had  not  reached  the  hotel,  for  a  cattle 
buyer  had  been  waiting  there  to  talk  with  him. 
His  testimony,  as  well  as  that  of  the  hotel  clerk, 
was  positive. 

Could  this  little  store,  the  Jack  of  Hearts,  be 
the  central  point  of  the  mystery?  In  his  search 
for  information  Curly  had  already  been  in  it,  had 
bought  a  cigar,  and  had  stopped  to  talk  with  Mrs. 
Wylie,  the  proprietor.  She  was  a  washed-out  little 
woman  who  had  once  been  pretty.  Habitually  she 
wore  a  depressed,  hopeless  look,  the  air  of  pathetic 
timidity  that  comes  to  some  women  who  have  found 
life  too  hard  for  them.  It  had  been  easy  to  alarm 
her.  His  first  question  had  evidently  set  her  heart 
a-flutter,  but  Flandrau  had  reassured  her  cheerfully. 
She  had  protested  with  absurd  earnestness  that  she 
had  seen  nothing  of  Mr.  Cullison.  A  single  glance 
had  been  enough  to  dismiss  her  from  any  possible 
suspicion. 

Now  Curly  stepped  in  a  second  time.  The 
203 


CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT 

frightened  gaze  of  Mrs.  Wylie  fastened  upon  him 
instantly.  He  observed  that  her  hand  moved  in 
stinctively  to  her  heart.  Beyond  question  she  was 
in  fear.  A  flash  of  light  clarified  his  mind.  She 
ffvas  a  conspirator,  but  an  unwilling  one.  Possibly 
she  might  be  the  author  of  the  anonymous  warnings 
sent  Bolt. 

The  young  vaquero  subscribed  for  a  magazine 
and  paid  her  the  money.  Tremblingly  she  filled  out 
the  receipt.  He  glanced  at  the  slip  and  handed  it 
.back. 

"Just  write  below  the  signature  'of  the  Jack  of 
Hearts/  so  that  I'll  remember  where  I  paid  the 
money  if  the  magazine  doesn't  come,"  he  sug 
gested. 

She  did  so,  and  Curly  put  the  receipt  in  his 
pocket  carelessly.  He  sauntered  leisurely  to  the 
hotel,  but  as  soon  as  he  could  get  into  a  telephone 
booth  his  listlessness  vanished.  Maloney  had  re 
turned  to  town  and  he  telephoned  him  to  get  Mac 
kenzie  at  once  and  watch  the  Jack  of  Hearts  in 
front  and  rear.  Before  he  left  the  booth  Curly  had 
compared  the  writing  of  Mrs.  Wylie  with  that  on 
the  sheet  that  had  come  by  special  delivery.  The 
:Ioop  of  the  J's,  the  shape  of  the  K's,  the  formation 
aof  the  capital  H  in  both  cases  were  alike.  So 
too  was  the  general  lack  of  character  common  to 
both,  the  peculiar  hesitating  drag  of  the  letters, 

204 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

Beyond  question  the  same  person  had  written  both. 

Certainly  Mrs.  Wylie  was  not  warning  the  sheriff 
against  herself.  Then  against  whom?  He  must 
know  her  antecedents,  and  at  once.  There  was  no 
time  for  him  to  mole  them  out  himself.  Calling 
up  a  local  detective  agency,  he  asked  the  manager 
to  let  him  know  within  an  hour  or  two  all  that 
could  be  found  out  about  the  woman  without  alarm 
ing  her. 

"Wait  a  moment  I  think  we  have  her  on  file. 
Hold  the  'phone."  The  detective  presently  returned. 
"Yes.  We  can  give  you  the  facts.  Will  you  come 
to  the  office  for  them?" 

Fifteen  minutes  later  Curly  knew  that  Mrs.  Wylie 
was  the  divorced  wife  of  Lute  Blackwell.  She  had 
come  to  Saguache  from  the  mountains  several  years 
before.  Soon  after  there  had  been  an  inconspicuous 
notice  in  the  Sentinel  to  the  effect  that  Cora  Black- 
well  was  suing  for  divorce  from  Lute  Blackwell, 
then  a  prisoner  m  the  penitentiary  at  Yuma.  An 
other  news  item  followed  a  week  later  stating  that 
the  divorce  had  been  granted  together  with  the 
right  to  use  her  maiden  name.  Unobtrusively  she 
had  started  her  little  store.  Her  former  husband, 
paroled  from  the  penitentiary  a  few  months  before 
the  rustling  episode,  had  at  intervals  made  of  her 
shop  a  loafing  place  since  that  time. 

Curly  returned  to  the  Del  Mar  and  sent  his  name 
205 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

up  to  Miss  Cullison.  With  Kate  and  Bob  there  was 
also  in  the  room  Alec  Flandrau. 

The  girl  came  forward  lightly  to  meet  him  with 
the  lance-straight  poise  that  always  seemed  to  him 
to  express  a  brave  spirit  ardent  and  unafraid. 

"Have  you  heard  something?"  she  asked  quickly. 

"Yes.  Tell  me,  when  did  your  father  last  meet 
Lute  Blackwell  so  far  as  you  know?" 

"I  don't  know.    Not  for  years,  I  think.     Why?" 

The  owner  of  the  Map  of  Texas  answered  the 
question  of  his  nephew.  "He  met  him  the  other 
day.  Let's  see.  It  was  right  after  the  big  poker 
game.  We  met  him  downstairs  here.  Luck  had 
to  straighten  out  some  notions  he  had  got." 

"How?" 

Flandrau,  Senior,  told  the  story  of  what  had  oc 
curred  in  the  hotel  lobby. 

"And  you  say  he  swore  to  get  even?" 

"That's  what  he  said.  And  he  looked  like  he 
meant  it  too." 

"What  is  it?  What  have  you  found  out?"  Kate 
implored. 

The  young  man  told  about  the  letters  and  Mrs. 
Wylie.  ; 

"We've  got  to  get  a  move  on  us,"  he  concluded. 
"For  if  Lute  Blackwell  did  this  thing  to  your  father 
it's  mighty  serious  for  him." 

Kate  was  white  to  the  lips,  but  in  no  danger  of 
206 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

breaking  down.  "Yes,  if  this  man  is  in  it  he  would 
not  stop  at  less  than  murder.  But  I  don't  believe  it. 
I  know  Father  is  alive.  Cass  Fendrick  is  the  man 
we  want.  I'm  sure  of  it." 

Curly  had  before  seen  women  hard  as  nails,  gaunt 
strong  mountaineers  as  tough  as  hickory  withes. 
But  he  had  never  before  seen  that  quality  dwelling 
in  a  slim  girlish  figure  of  long  soft  curves,  never 
seen  it  in  a  face  of  dewy  freshness  that  could  melt 
to  the  tenderest  pity.  She  was  like  flint,  and  yet 
she  could  give  herself  with  a  passionate  tenderness 
to  those  she  loved.  He  had  seen  animals  guard  their 
young  with  that  same  alert  eager  abandon.  His 
conviction  was  that  she  would  gladly  die  for  her 
father  if  it  were  necessary.  As  he  looked  at  her 
with  hard  unchanging  eyes,  his  blood  quickened  to 
a  fierce  joy  in  her  it  had  known  for  no  other  woman. 

"First  thing  is  to  search  the  Jack  of  Hearts  and 
see  what's  there.  Are  you  with  me,  Uncle  Alec?" 

"I  sure  am,  Curly ;"  and  he  reached  for  his  hat. 

Bob  too  was  on  his  feet.  "I'm  going.  You 
needn't  any  of  you  say  I  ain't,  for  I  am." 

Curly  nodded.    "If  you'll  do  as  you're  told,  Bob." 

"I  will.     Cross  my  heart." 

"May  I  come  too?"  Kate  pleaded. 

She  was  a  strongwilled  impulsive  young  woman, 
and  her  deference  to  Curly  flattered  him;  but  he 
shook  his  head  none  the  less. 

207 


CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT 

"No.  You  may  wait  in  the  parlor  downstairs 
and  I'll  send  Bob  to  you  with  any  news.  There's 
just  a  chance  this  may  be  a  man's  job  and  we  want 
to  go  to  it  unhampered."  He  turned  at  the  door 
with  his  warm  smile.  "By  the  way,  I've  got  some 
news  I  forgot.  I  know  where  your  father  got  the 
money  to  pay  his  poker  debts.  Mr.  Jordan  of  the 
Cattlemen's  National  made  him  a  personal  loan. 
He  figured  it  would  not  hurt  the  bank  because  the 
three  men  Luck  paid  it  to  would  deposit  it  with  the 
bank  again." 

"By  George,  that's  what  we  did,  too,  every  last 
one  of  us,"  his  uncle  admitted. 

"Every  little  helps,"  Kate  said,  and  her  little 
double  nod  thanked  Curly. 

The  young  man  stopped  a  moment  after  the 
others  had  gone.  "I'm  not  going  to  let  Bob  get 
into  danger,"  he  promised. 

"I  knew  you  wouldn't,"  was  her  confident  an 
swer. 

At  the  corner  of  the  plaza  Curly  gave  Bob  in 
structions. 

"You  stay  here  and  keep  an  eye  on  everyone  that 
passes.  Don't  try  to  stop  anybody.  Just  size  them 
up." 

"Ain't  I  to  go  with  you?    I  got  a  gun." 

"You're  to  do  as  I  say.  What  kind  of  a  soldier 
would  you  make  if  you  can't  obey  orders?  I'm 

208 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

running  this.    If  you  don't  like  it  trot  along  home." 

"Oh,  I'll  stay,"  agreed  the  crestfallen  youth. 

Maloney  met  them  in  front  of  the  Jack  of  Hearts. 

"Dick,  you  go  with  me  inside.  Uncle  Alec,  will 
you  keep  guard  outside?" 

"No,  bub,  I  won't.  I  knew  Luck  before  you  were 
walking  bowlegged,"  the  old  cattleman  answered 
brusquely. 

Curly  grinned.  "All  right.  Don't  blame  me  if 
you  get  shot  up." 

Mrs.  Wylie's  startled  eyes  told  tales  when  she 
saw  the  three  men.  Her  face  was  ashen. 

"I'm  here  to  play  trumps,  Mrs.  Wylie.  What 
secret  has  the  Jack  of  Hearts  got  hidden  from  us  ?" 
young  Flandrau  demanded,  his  hard  eyes  fastened  to 
her  timorous  ones. 

"I — I — I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"No  use.  We're  here  for  business.  Dick,  you 
stay  with  her.  Don't  let  her  leave  or  shout  a  warn 
ing/' 

He  passed  into  the  back  room,  which  was  a  kind 
of  combination  living  room,  kitchen  and  bedroom. 
A  door  led  from  the  rear  into  a  back  yard  littered 
with  empty  packing  cases,  garbage  cans  and  waste 
paper.  After  taking  a  look  around  the  yard  he 
locked  the  back  door  noiselessly.  There  was  no 
other  apparent  exit  from  the  kitchen-bedroom  ex 
cept  the  one  by  which  he  and  his  uncle  had  entered 

209 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

from  the  shop.  But  he  knew  the  place  must  have 
a  cellar,  and  his  inspection  of  the  yard  had  showed 
no  entrance  there.  He  drew  back  the  Navajo  rug 
that  covered  the  floor  and  found  one  of  the  old- 
fashioned  trap  doors  some  cheap  houses  have.  Into 
this  was  fitted  an  iron  ring  with  which  to  lift  it. 

From  the  darkness  below  came  no  sound,  but 
Curly's  imagination  conceived  the  place  as  full  of 
shining  eyes  glaring  up  at  him.  Any  bad  men 
down  there  already  had  the  drop  on  them.  There 
fore  neither  Curly  nor  his  uncle  made  the  mistake 
of  drawing  a  weapon. 

"I'm  coming  down,  boys/'  young  Flandrau  an 
nounced  in  a  quiet  confident  voice.  "The  place  is 
surrounded  by  our  friends  and  it  won't  do  you  a 
whole  lot  of  good  to  shoot  me  up.  I'd  advise  you 
not  to  be  too  impulsive." 

He  descended  the  steps,  his  face  like  a  stone  wall 
for  all  the  emotion  it  recorded.  At  his  heels  came 
the  older  man.  Curly  struck  a  match,  found  an 
electric  bulb  above  his  head,  and  turned  the  button. 
Instantly  the  darkness  was  driven  from  the  cellar. 

The  two  Flatodraus  were  quite  alone  in  the  room. 
For  furniture  there  was  a  table,  a  cot  which  had 
been  slept  in  and  not  made  up,  and  a  couple  of 
rough  chairs.  The  place  had  no  windows,  no  means 
of  ventilation  except  through  the  trap  door.  Yet 
there  were  evidences  to  show  that  it  had  recently 

210 


CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT 

been  inhabited.  Half  smoked  cigars  littered  the 
floor.  A  pack  of  cards  lay  in  disorder  on  the  table. 
The  Sentinel  with  date  line  of  that  day  lay  tossed 
in  a  corner. 

The  room  told  Curly  this  at  least:  There  had 
been  a  prisoner  here  with  a  guard  or  guards. 
Judging  by  the  newspaper  they  had  been  here  within 
a  few  hours.  The  time  of  sending  the  special  de 
livery  letter  made  this  the  more  probable.  He  had 
missed  the  men  he  wanted  by  a  very  little  time. 
If  he  had  had  the  gumption  to  understand  the  hints 
given  by  the  letters  Cullison  might  now  be  eating 
supper  with  his  family  at  the  hotel. 

"Make  anything  out  of  it?"  the  older  Flandrau 
asked. 

"He's  been  here,  but  they've  taken  him  away. 
Will  you  cover  the  telephoning?  Have  all  the 
ranches  notified  that  Luck  is  being  taken  into  the 
hills  so  they  can  picket  the  trails." 

"How  do  you  know  he  is  being  taken  there  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  guess.  Blackwell  is  in  it.  He 
knows  every  nook  of  the  hills.  The  party  left  here 
not  two  hours  since,  looks  like." 

Curly  put  the  newspaper  in  his  pocket  and  led  the 
way  back  to  the  store. 

"The  birds  have  flown,  Dick.  Made  their  get 
away  through  the  alley  late  this  afternoon,  probably 
just  after  it  got  dark."  He  turned  to  the  woman. 

211 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

"Mrs.  Wylie,  murder  is  going  to  be  done,  I 
shouldn't  wonder.  And  you're  liable  to  be  held 
guilty  of  it  unless  you  tell  us  all  you  know." 

She  began  to  weep,  helplessly,  but  with  a  sort 
of  stubbornness  too.  Frightened  she  certainly  was, 
but  some  greater  fear  held  her  silent  as  to  the 
secret.  "I  don't  know  anything  about  it,"  she  re 
peated  over  and  over. 

"Won't  do.  You've  got  to  speak.  A  man's  life 
hangs  on  it." 

But  his  resolution  could  not  break  hers,  incom 
parably  stronger  than  she  though  he  was.  Her 
conscience  had  driven  her  to  send  veiled  warnings 
to  the  sheriff.  But  for  very  fear  of  her  life  she 
dared  not  commit  herself  openly. 

Maloney  had  an  inspiration.  He  spoke  in  a  low 
voice  to  Curly.  "Let's  take  her  to  the  hotel.  Miss 
Kate  will  know  how  to  get  it  out  of  her  better  than 
we  can." 

Mrs.  Wylie  went  with  them  quietly  enough.  She 
was  shaken  with  fears  but  still  resolute  not  to  speak. 
They  might  send  her  to  prison.  She  would  tell 
them  nothing — nothing  at  all.  For  someone  who 
had  made  terror  the  habit  of  her  life  had  put  the 
fear  of  death  into  her  soul. 


212 


CHAPTER  VIII 
A   MESSAGE  IN   CIPHER 

While  Kate  listened  to  what  Curly  had  to  tell  her 
the  dark  eyes  of  the  girl  were  fastened  upon  the 
trembling  little  woman  standing  near  the  door. 

"Do  you  mean  that  she  is  going  to  let  my  father 
be  killed  rather  than  tell  what  she  knows?"  Her 
voice  was  sharply  incredulous,  touched  with  a  horror 
scarcely  realized. 

"So  she  says." 

Mrs.  Wylie  wrung  her  hands  in  agitation.  Her 
lined  face  was  a  mirror  of  distress. 

"But  that's  impossible.  She  must  tell.  What  has 
Father  ever  done  to  hurt  her?" 

"I — I  don't  know  anything  about  it,"  the  harassed 
woman  iterated. 

"What's  the  use  of  saying  that  when  we  know 
you  do?  And  you'll  not  get  out  of  it  by  sobbing. 
You've  got  to  talk." 

Kate  had  not  moved.  None  the  less  her  force, 
the  upblaze  of  feminine  energy  in  her,  crowded  the 
little  storekeeper  to  the  wall.  "You've  got  to  tell — 
you've  just  got  to,"  she  insisted. 

The  little  woman  shrank  before  the  energy  of  a 
passion  so  vital.  No  strength  was  in  her  to  fight 

213 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

But  she  could  and  did  offer  the  passive  resistance 
of  obstinate  silence. 

Curly  had  drawn  from  his  pocket  the  newspaper 
found  in  the  cellar.  His  eyes  had  searched  for  the 
date  line  to  use  as  cumulative  evidence,  but  they 
had  remained  fastened  to  one  story.  Now  he  spoke 
imperatively. 

"Come  here,  Miss  Kate." 

She  was  beside  him  in  an  instant.    "What  is  it?" 

"I'm  not  sure  yet,  but Look  here.  I  believe 

this  is  a  message  to  us." 

"A  message?" 

"From  your  father  perhaps." 

"How  could  it  be?" 

"I  found  the  paper  in  the  cellar  where  he  was. 
See  how  some  of  these  words  are  scored.  Done 
with  a  finger  nail,  looks  like." 

"But  how  could  he  know  we  would  see  the  paper, 
and  if  we  did  see  it  would  understand  ?" 

"He  couldn't.  It  would  be  one  chance  in  a  mil 
lion,  but  all  his  life  he's  been  taking  chances.  This 
couldn't  do  any  harm." 

Her  dark  head  bent  beside  his  fair  one  with  the 
crisp  sun-reddened  curls. 

"I  don't  see  any  message.    Where  is  it?" 

"I  don't  see  it  myself — not  much  of  it.  Gimme 
time." 

This  was  the  paragraph  upon  which  his  gaze  had 
214 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

fastened,  and  the  words  and  letters  were  scored 
sharply  as  shown  below,  though  in  the  case  of  single 
letters  the  mark  ran  through  them  instead  of  under 
neath,  evidently  that  no  mistake  might  be  made  as 
to  which  was  meant. 

J.  P.  Kelley  of  the  ranger  force  reports 
over  the  telephone  that  by  unexpected  good 
luck  he  has  succeeded  in  taking  prisoner 
the  notorious  Jack  Foster  of  H$rmosill£ 
and  the  Rincons  notoriety  and  i$  now 
bringing  him  to  Saguache  where  he  will  be 
locked  up  pending  a  disposition  of  his  case. 
Kelley  succeeded  in  surprising  him  while 
he  was  eating  dinner  at  a  Mexican  road- 
house  just  this  side  of  the  border. 
"Do  you  make  it  out?"  Maloney  asked,  looking 
over  their  shoulders. 

Curly  took  a  pencil  and  an  envelope  from  his 
pocket.  On  the  latter  he  jotted  down  some  words 
and  handed  the  paper  to  his  friend.  This  was  what 
Maloney  read: 


----    prisoner    ----  Jack....  of  He....  a 

----  R  ......  t  ......  s  now  ............ 

Saguache  ......  locked  up  pending  a  dis 

position  of   his  case  .....  succeeded   in 

surprising  him  ....................... 


215 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND   STRAIGHT 

"Read  that  right  ahead." 

Dick  did  not  quite  get  the  idea,  but  Kate,  tense 
with  excitement,  took  the  envelope  and  read  aloud. 

"Luck prisoner Jack    of    Hearts now 

Saguache locked   up  pending  a   disposition  of 

his    case succeeded    in    surprising    him."      She 

looked  up  with  shining  eyes.  "He  tells  us  every 
thing  but  the  names  of  the  people  who  did  it.  Per 
haps  somewhere  else  in  the  paper  he  may  tell  that 
too." 

But  though  they  went  over  it  word  for  word  they 
found  no  more.  Either  he  had  been  interrupted, 
or  he  had  been  afraid  that  his  casual  thumb  nail 
pressures  might  arouse  the  suspicion  of  his  guards 
if  persisted  in  too  long. 

"He's  alive  somewhere.  We'll  save  him  now." 
Kate  cried  it  softly,  all  warm  with  the  joy  of  it. 

"Seems  to  let  our  friend  Fendrick  out,"  Maloney 
mused. 

"Lets  him  out  of  kidnapping  Uncle  Luck  but 
maybe  not  out  of  the  robbery,"  Bob  amended. 

"Doesn't  let  him  out  of  either.  Somebody  was 
in  this  with  Blackwell.  If  it  wasn't  Cass  Fendrick 
then  who  was  it?"  Kate  wanted  to  know. 

"Might  have  been  Soapy  Stone,"  Dick  guessed. 

"Might  have  been,  but  now  Sam  has  gone  back 
into  the  hills  to  join  Soapy;  the  gang  would  have 
to  keep  it  from  Sam.  He  wouldn't  stand  for  it." 

216 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

"No,  not  for  a  minute,"  Kate  said  decisively. 

Curly  spoke  to  her  in  a  low  voice.  "You  have 
a  talk  with  Mrs.  Wylie  alone.  Well  pull  our 
freights.  She'll  tell  you  what  she  knows."  He 
smiled  in  his  gentle  winning  way.  "She's  sure  had 
a  tough  time  of  it  if  ever  a  woman  had.  I  reckon 
a  little  kindness  is  what  she  needs.  Let  her  see 
we're  her  friends  and  will  stand  by  her,  that  we 
won't  let  her  come  to  harm  because  she  talks.  Show 
her  we  know  everything  anyhow  but  want  her  to 
corroborate  details." 

It  was  an  hour  before  Kate  joined  them,  and 
her  eyes,  though  they  were  very  bright,  told  tales 
of  tears  that  had  been  shed. 

"That  poor  woman !  She  has  told  me  everything. 
Father  has  been  down  in  that  cellar  for  days  under 
a  guard.  They  took  him  away  to-night.  She 
doesn't  know  where.  It  was  she  sent  the  warnings 
to  Sheriff  Bolt.  She  wanted  him  to  raid  the  place, 
but  she  dared  not  go  to  him." 

"Because  of  Blackwell?" 

"Yes.  He  came  straight  to  her  as  soon  as  he 
was  freed  from  the  penitentiary.  He  had  her  com 
pletely  terrorized.  It  seems  she  has  been  afraid  to 
draw  a  deep  breath  ever  since  he  returned.  Even 
while  he  was  in  the  hills  she  was  always  looking 
for  him  to  come.  The  man  used  to  keep  her  in 
a  hell  and  he  began  bullying  her  again.  So  she 

217 


CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT 

gave   him    money,    and    he    came    for   more — and 


more." 


Curly  nodded.  He  said  nothing,  but  his  strong 
jaw  clamped. 

"He  was  there  that  day,"  the  girl  continued. 
"She  plucked  up  courage  to  refuse  him  what  little 
she  had  left  because  she  needed  it  for  the  rent.  He 
got  hold  of  her  arm  and  twisted  it.  Father  heard 
her  cry  and  came  in.  Blackwell  was  behind  the 
door  as  it  opened.  He  struck  with  a  loaded  cane 
and  Father  fell  unconscious.  He  raised  it  to  strike 
again,  but  she  clung  to  his  arm  and  called  for  help. 
Before  he  could  shake  her  off  another  man  came 
in.  He  wrenched  the  club  away." 

"Fendrick?"  breathed  Curly. 

"She  doesn't  know.  But  the  first  thing  he  did 
was  to  lock  the  outer  door  and  take  the  key.  They 
carried  Father  down  into  the  cellar.  Before  he 
came  to  himself  his  hands  were  tied  behind  his 
back." 

"And  then?" 

"They  watched  him  day  and  night.  Fendrick 
himself  did  not  go  near  the  place — if  it  was  Fen 
drick.  Blackwell  swore  to  kill  Mrs.  Wylie  if  she 
told.  They  held  him  there  till  to-night.  She  thinks 
they  were  trying  to  get  Father  to  sign  some  paper." 

"The  relinquishment  of  course.  That  means  the 
other  man  was  Fendrick." 

218 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

Kate  nodded.    "Yes." 

Curly  rose.  The  muscles  stood  out  in  his  jaw 
hard  as  steel  ropes. 

"We'll  rake  the  Rincons  with  a  fine  tooth  comb. 
Don't  you  worry.  I've  already  wired  for  Bucky 
O'Connor  to  come  and  help.  We'll  get  your  Father 
out  of  the  hands  of  those  hell  hounds.  Won't  we, 
Dick?" 

The  girl's  eyes  admired  him,  a  lean  hard-bitten 
Westerner  with  eyes  as  unblinking  as  an  Arizona 
sun  and  with  muscles  like  wire  springs.  His  face 
still  held  its  boyishness,  but  it  had  lost  forever  the 
irresponsibility  of  a  few  months  before.  She  saw 
in  him  an  iron  will,  shrewdness,  courage  and  re 
source.  All  of  these  his  friend  Maloney  also  had. 
But  Curly  was  the  prodigal  son,  the  sinner  who  had 
repented.  His  engaging  recklessness  lent  him  a 
charm  from  which  she  could  not  escape.  Out  of  ten 
thousand  men  there  were  none  whose  voice  drum 
med  on  her  heart  strings  as  did  that  of  this  youth. 


219 


CHAPTER  IX 
"THE   FRIENDS   OF   L.   C.   SERVE   NOTICE" 

Two  men  sat  in  a  log  cabin  on  opposite  sides 
of  a  cheap  table.  One  of  them  was  immersed  in  a 
newspaper.  His  body  was  relaxed,  his  mind  ap 
parently  at  ease.  The  other  watched  him  malevo 
lently.  His  fingers  caressed  the  handle  of  a  re 
volver  that  protruded  from  the  holster  at  his  side. 
He  would  have  liked  nothing  better  than  to  have 
drawn  it  and  sent  a  bullet  crashing  into  the  un 
perturbed  brain  of  his  prisoner. 

There  were  reasons  of  policy  why  it  were  better 
to  curb  this  fascinating  desire,  but  sometimes  the 
impulse  to  kill  surged  up  almost  uncontrollably.  On 
these  occasions  Luck  CulHson  was  usually  "devil 
ing"  him,  the  only  diversion  that  had  been  open  to 
the  ranchman  for  some  days  past.  Because  of  its 
danger — for  he  could  never  be  quite  sure  that 
Blackwell's  lust  for  swift  vengeance  would  not  over 
power  discretion — this  pastime  made  a  peculiar 
appeal  to  the  audacious  temper  of  the  owner  of 
the  Circle  C. 

From  time  to  time  as  Luck  read  he  commented 
genially  on  the  news. 

220 


CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT 

"I  see  Tucson  is  going  to  get  the  El  Paso  & 
Southwestern  extension  after  all.  I'll  bet  the  boys 
in  that  burg  will  be  right  tickled  to  hear  it.  They 
sure  have  worked  steady  for  it." 

Blackwell  merely  scowled.  He  never  relaxed  to 
the  give  and  take  of  casual  talk  with  his  captive. 
Given  his  way,  Cullison  would  not  be  here  to  read 
the  Sentinel.  But  the  brains  of  the  conspiracy  had 
ruled  otherwise  and  had  insisted  too  upon  decent 
treatment.  With  one  ankle  securely  tied  to  a  leg 
of  the  table  there  was  no  danger  in  freeing  the 
hands  of  the  cattleman,  but  his  hosts  saw  that  never 
for  an  instant  were  hands  and  feet  at  liberty  to 
gether.  For  this  man  was  not  the  one  with  whom 
to  take  chances. 

"Rudd  has  been  convicted  of  forgery  and  taken 
to  Yuma.  Seems  to  me  you  used  to  live  there, 
didn't  you?"  asked  the  cattleman  with  cool  inso- 
leaice,  looking  up  from  his  paper  to  smile  across  at 
the  furious  convict. 

Blackwell  was  livid.  The  man  who  had  sent  him 
to  the  territorial  prison  at  Yuma  dared  to  sit  there 
bound  and  unarmed  and  taunt  him  with  it. 

"Take  care,"  he  advised  hoarsely. 

Cullison  laughed  and  went  back  to  the  paper. 

"  'Lieutenant  O'Connor  of  the  Arizona  Rangers 
left  town  to-day  for  a  short  trip  into  the  hills  where 
he  expects  to  spend  a  few  days  hunting.'  Hunting 

221 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

what,  do  you  reckon?  Or  hunting  who,  I  should 
say.  Ever  meet  Bucky  O'Connor,  Blackwell?  No, 
I  reckon  not.  He's  since  your  time.  A  crackerjack 
too!  Wonder  if  Bucky  ain't  after  some  friends  of 
mine." 

"Shut  up,"  growled  the  other. 

"Sure  you'll  be  shut  up — when  Bucky  lands  you," 
retoited  Luck  cheerfully.  Then,  with  a  sudden 
whoop:  "Hello,  here's  a  personal  to  your  address. 
Fine !  They're  getting  ready  to  round  you  up,  my 
friend.  Listen.  'The  friends  of  L.  C.  serve  notice 
that  what  occurred  at  the  Jack  of  Hearts  is  known. 
Any  violence  hereafter  done  to  him  will  be  paid  for 
to  the  limit.  No  guilty  man  will  escape/  So  the 
boys  are  getting  busy.  I  figured  they  would  be. 
Looks  like  your  chance  of  knocking  me  on  the  head 
has  gone  down  Salt  River.  I  tell  you  nowadays  a 
man  has  to  grab  an  opportunity  by  the  tail  when  it's 
there." 

The  former  convict  leaned  forward  angrily. 
''Lemme  see  that  paper." 

His  guest  handed  it  over,  an  index  finger  point 
ing  out  the  item.  "Large  as  life,  Blackwell.  No, 
sir.  You  ce'tainly  didn't  ride  herd  proper  on  that 
opportunity." 

"Don't  be  too  sure  it's  gone,  Mr.  Sheriff." 

The  man's  face  was  twisted  to  an  ugly  sneer  back 
222 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

of  which  lurked  cruel  menace.  The  gray  eyes  of 
Cullison  did  not  waver  a  hair's  breadth. 

"It's  gone.  I'm  as  safe  as  if  I  were  at  the  Circle 
C" 

"Don't  you  think  it." 

"They've  got  you  dead  to  rights.  Read  that  per 
sonal  again.  Learn  it  by  heart.  The  friends  of 
L.  C.  give  warning.'  You  better  believe  they're 
rounding  up  your  outfit.  They  know  I'm  alive. 
They  know  all  about  the  Jack  of  Hearts.  Pretty 
soon  they'll  know  where  you've  got  me  hidden." 

"You'd  better  pray  they  won't.  For  if  they  find 
the  nest  it  will  be  empty." 

"Yes  ?"  Luck  spoke  with  ironical  carelessness,  but 
he  shot  an  alert  keen  glance  at  the  other. 

"That's  what  I  said.  Want  to  know  where  you 
will  be?"  the  other  triumphed. 

"I  see  you  want  to  tell  me.    Unload  your  mind." 

Triumph  overrode  discretion.  "Look  out  of  that 
window  behind  you." 

Luck  turned.  The  cabin  was  built  on  a  ledge  far 
up  on  the  mountain  side.  From  the  back  wall  sloped 
for  a  hundred  feet  an  almost  perpendicular  slide  of 
rock. 

"There's  a  prospect  hole  down  there,"  Blackwell 
explained  savagely.  "You'd  go  down  the  Devil's 
Slide — what's  left  of  you,  I  mean — deep  into  that 

223 


CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT 

prospect  hole.  The  timberings  are  rotted  and  the 
whole  top  of  the  working  ready  to  cave  in.  When 
your  body  hits  it  there  will  be  an  avalanche — with 
Mr.  Former-sheriff  Cullison  at  the  bottom  of  it. 
You'll  be  buried  without  any  funeral  expenses,  and 
I  reckon  your  friends  will  never  know  where  to 
put  the  headstone/' 

The  thing  was  devilishly  simple  and  feasible. 
Luck,  still  looking  out  of  the  window,  felt  the  blood 
run  cold  down  his  spine,  for  he  knew  this  fellow 
would  never  stick  at  murder  if  he  felt  it  would  be 
safe.  No  doubt  he  was  being  well  paid,  and  though 
in  this  workaday  world  revenge  has  gone  out  of 
fashion  there  was  no  denying  that  this  ruffian  would 
enjoy  evening  the  score.  But  his  confederate  was 
of  another  stripe,  a  human  being  with  normal  pas 
sions  and  instincts.  The  cattleman  wondered  how 
he  could  reconcile  it  to  his  conscience  to  go  into  so 
vile  a  plot  with  a  villain  like  the  convict. 

"So  you  see  I'm  right;  you'd  better  pray  your 
friends  won't  find  you.  They  can't  reach  here  with 
out  being  heard.  If  they  get  to  hunting  these  hills 
you  sure  want  to  hope  they'll  stay  cold,  for  just  as 
soon  as  they  get  warm  it  will  be  the  signal  for  you 
to  shoot  the  chutes." 

Luck  met  his  triumphant  savagery  with  an  im 
passive  face.  "Interesting  if  true.  And  where  will 

224 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

you  be  when  my  friends  arrive.  I  reckon  it  won'! 
be  a  pleasant  meeting  for  Mr.  Blackwell." 

"I'll  be  headed  for  Mexico.  I  tell  you  because 
you  ain't  liable  to  go  around  spreading  the  news. 
There's  a  horse  saddled  in  the  dip  back  of  the  hill 
crest.  Get  it?" 

"Fine,"  Cullison  came  back.  "And  you'll  ride 
right  into  some  of  Bucky  O'Connor's  rangers.  He's 
got  the  border  patroled.  You'd  never  make  it." 

"Don't  worry.  I'd  slip  through.  I'm  no  tender 
foot." 

"What  if  you  did  ?  Bucky  would  drag  you  back 
by  the  scruff  of  the  neck  in  two  weeks.  Remember 
Chavez." 

He  referred  to  a  murderer  whom  the  lieutenant 
of  rangers  had  captured  and  brought  back  to  be 
hanged  later. 

"Chavez  was  a  fool." 

"Was  he?  You  don't  get  the  point.  The  old 
days  are  gone.  Law  is  in  the  saddle.  Murder  is 
no  longer  a  pleasant  pastime."  And  Cullison 
stretched  his  arms  and  yawned. 

From  far  below  there  came  through  the  open 
window  the  faint  click  of  a  horse's  hoofs  ringing 
against  the  stones  in  the  dry  bed  of  a  river  wash. 
Swiftly  Blackwell  moved  to  the  door,  taking  down 
a  rifle  from  its  rack  as  he  did  so.  Cullison  rose 

225 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

noiselessly  in  his  chair.  If  it  came  to  the  worst  he 
meant  to  shout  aloud  his  presence  and  close  with 
this  fellow.  Hampered  as  he  was  by  the  table, 
the  man  would  get  him  without  question.  But  if 
he  could  only  sink  his  fingers  into  that  hairy  throat 
while  there  was  still  life  in  him  he  could  promise 
that  the  Mexican  trip  would  never  take  place. 

Blackwell,  from  his  place  by  the  door,  could  keep 
an  eye  both  on  his  prisoner  and  on  a  point  of  the 
trail  far  below  where  horsemen  must  pass  to  reach 
the  cabin. 

"Sit  down,"  he  ordered. 

Cullison's  eyes  were  like  finely-tempered  steel. 
"I'd  rather  stand." 

"By  God,  if  you  move  from  there "  The  man 

did  not  finish  his  sentence,  but  the  rifle  was  already 
half  lifted.  More  words  would  have  been  super 
fluous. 

A  rider  came  into  sight  and  entered^the  mouth 
of  the  canon.  He  was  waving  a  white  handker 
chief.  The  man  in  the  doorway  answered  the  sig 
nal. 

"Not  your  friends  this  time,  I  Ir.  Sheriff,"  Black- 
well  jeered. 

"I  get  a  stay  of  execution,  do  I?"  The  cool 
drawling  voice  of  the  cattleman  showed  nothing  of 
the  tense  feeling  within. 

He  resumed  his  seat  and  the  reading  of  the  news- 
226  ' 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND   STRAIGHT 

paper.  Presently,  to  the  man  that  came  over  the 
threshold  he  spoke  with  a  casual  nod. 

"Morning,  Cass." 

Fendrick  mumbled  a  surly  answer.  The  manner 
of  ironical  comradeship  his  captive  chose  to  employ 
was  more  than  an  annoyance.  To  serve  his  ends 
it  was  necessary  to  put  the  fear  of  death  into  this 
man's  heart,  which  was  a  thing  he  had  found  im 
possible  to  do.  His  foe  would  deride  him,  joke 
with  him,  discuss  politics  with  him,  play  cards  with 
him,  do  anything  but  fear  him.  In  the  meantime 
the  logic  of  circumstances  was  driving  the  sheep 
man  into  a  corner.  He  had  on  impulse  made  the 
owner  of  the  Circle  C  his  prisoner.  Seeing  him 
lie  there  unconscious  on  the  floor  of  the  Jack  of 
Hearts,  it  had  come  to  him  in  a  flash  that  he  might 
hold  him  and  force  a  relinquishment  of  the  Del 
Oro  claim.  His  disappearance  would  explain  itself 
if  the  rumjr  spread  that  he  was  the  W.  &  S.  express 
robber.  Cass  had  done  it  to  save  himself  from  the 
ruin  of  his  business,  but  already  he  had  regretted 
it  fifty  times.  Threats  could  not  move  Luck  in  the 
least.  He  was  as  $ard  as  iron. 

So  the  sheepman  found  himself  between  the  upper 
and  the  nether  millstones.  He  could  not  drive  his 
prisoner  to  terms  and  he  dared  not  release  him. 
For  if  Cullison  went  away  unpledged  he  would 
surely  send  him  to  the  penitentiary.  Nor  could  he 

227 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

hold  him  a  prisoner  indefinitely.  He  had  seen  the 
"personal"  warning  in  both  the  morning  and  the 
afternoon  papers.  He  guessed  that  the  presence 
of  the  ranger  Bucky  O'Connor  in  Saguache  was  not 
a  chance.  The  law  was  closing  in  on  him.  Some 
how  Cullison  must  be  made  to  come  through  with 
a  relinquishment  and  a  pledge  not  to  prosecute. 
The  only  other  way  out  would  be  to  let  Blackwell 
wreak  his  hate  on  the  former  sheriff.  From  this  he 
shrank  with  every  instinct.  Fendrick  was  a  hard 
man.  He  would  have  fought  it  out  to  a  finish  if 
necessary.  But  murder  was  a  thing  he  could  not  do. 

He  had  never  discussed  the  matter  with  Black- 
well.  The  latter  had  told  him  of  this  retreat  in  the 
mountains  and  they  had  brought  their  prisoner  here. 
But  the  existence  of  the  prospect  hole  at  the  foot 
of  the  Devil's  Slide  was  unknown  to  him.  From 
the  convict's  revenge  he  had  hitherto  saved  Luck. 
Blackwell  was  his  tool  rather  than  his  confederate, 
but  he  was  uneasily  aware  that  if  the  man  yielded 
to  the  elemental  desire  to  kill  his  enemy  the  law 
would  hold  him,  Cass  Fendrick,  guilty  of  the  crime. 

"Price  of  sheep  good  this  week?"  Cullison  asked 
amiably. 

"I  didn't  come  here  to  discuss  the  price  of  sheep 
with  you."  Fendrick  spoke  harshly.  A  dull  anger 
against  the  scheme  of  things  burned  in  him.  For 

228 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

somehow  he  had  reached  an  impasse  from  which 
there  was  neither  advance  nor  retreat. 

"No.  Well,  you're  right  there.  What  I  don't 
know  about  sheep  would  fill  several  government  re 
ports.  Of  course  I've  got  ideas.  One  of  them 
• » 

"I  don't  care  anything  about  your  ideas.  Are 
you  going  to  sign  this  relinquishment  ?" 

Luck's  face  showed  a  placid  surprise.  "Why  no, 
Cass.  Thought  I  mentioned  that  before." 

"You'd  better."  The  sheepman's  harassed  face 
looked  ugly  enough  for  anything. 

"Can't  figure  it  out  that  way." 

"You've  got  to  sign  it.  By  God,  you've  no  op 
tion." 

"No?"     Still  with  pleasant  incredulity. 

"Think  I'm  going  to  let  you  get  away  from  here 
now.  You'll  sign  and  you'll  promise  to  tell  nothing 
you  know  against  us." 

"No,  I  don't  reckon  I  will." 

Cullison  was  looking  straight  at  him  with  his 
fearless  level  ga|je.  Fendrick  realized  with  a  sink 
ing  heart  that  he  could  not  drive  him  that  way  to 
surrender.  He  knew  that  in  the  other  man's  place 
he  would  have  given  way,  that  }iis  enemy  was  gamer 
than  he  was. 

He  threw  up  his  hand  in  a  sullen  gesture  that 
229 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

disclaimed  responsibility.  "All  right.  It's  on  your 
own  head.  I've  done  all  I  can  for  you." 

"What's  on  my  head?" 

"Your  life.  Damn  you,  don't  you  see  you're 
driving  me  too  far?" 

"How  far?" 

"I'm  not  going  to  let  you  get  away  to  send  us 
to  prison.  What  do  you  expect?" 

Luck's  frosty  eyes  did  not  release  the  other  for 
a  moment.  "How  are  you  going  to  prevent  it, 
Cass?" 

"I'll  find  a  way." 

"Blackwell's  way— the  Devil's  Slide?" 

The  puzzled  look  of  the  sheepman  told  Cullison 
that  Blackwell's  plan  of  exit  for  him  had  not  been 
submitted  to  the  other. 

"Your  friend  from  Yuma  has  been  explaining 
how  he  has  arranged  for  me  to  cross  the  divide," 
he  went  on.  "I'm  to  be  plugged  full  of  lead,  shot 
down  that  rock,  and  landed  in  a  prospect  hole  at 
the  bottom." 

"First  I've  heard  of  it."  Fendrick  wheeled  upon 
his  accomplice  with  angry  eyes.  He  was  in  general 
a  dominant  frian,  and  not  one  who  would  stand 
much  initiative  from  his  assistants. 

"He's  always  deviling  me,"  complained  the  con 
vict  surlily.  Then,  with  a  flash  of  anger:  "But 

230 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

I  stand  pat.     He'll  get  his  before  I  take  chances 
of  getting  caught.     I'm  nobody's  fool." 

Cass  snapped  him  up.  "You'll  do  as  I  say. 
You'll  not  lift  a  finger  against  him  unless  he  tries 
to  escape." 

"Have  you  seen  the  Sentinel?  I  tell  you  his 
friends  know  everything.  Someone's  peached. 
They're  hot  on  our  trail.  Bucky  O'Connor  is  in 
the  hills.  Think  I'm  going  to  be  caught  like  a  rat 
in  a  trap?" 

"We'll  talk  of  that  later.  Now  you  go  look 
after  my  horse  while  I  keep  guard  here." 

Blackwell  went,  protesting  that  he  was  no 
"nigger"  to  be  ordered  about  on  errands.  As  soon 
as  he  was  out  of  hearing  Fendrick  turned  his  thin 
lip-smile  on  the  prisoner. 

"It's  up  to  you,  Cullison.  I  saved  your  life  once. 
I'm  protecting  you  now.  But  if  your  friends  show 
up  he'll  do  as  he  says.  I  won't  be  here  to  stop  him. 
Sign  up  and  don't  be  a  fool." 

Luck's  answer  came  easily  and  lightly.  "My 
friend,  we've  already  discussed  that  point." 

"You  won't  change  your  mind  ?" 

"Your  arguments  don't  justify  it,  Cass." 

The  sheepman  looked  at  him  with  a  sinister  sig 
nificance.  "Good  enough.  I'll  bring  you  one  that 
will  justify  it  muy  pronto." 

231 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

"It  will  have  to  be  a  mighty  powerful  one.  Sorry 
I  can't  oblige  you  and  your  friend,  the  convict." 

"It'll  be  powerful  enough."  Fendrick  went  to 
the  door  and  called  Blackwell.  "Bring  back  that 
horse.  I'm  going  down  to  the  valley." 


232 


CHAPTER  X 
CASS   FENDRICK   MAKES   A   CALL 

Kate  was  in  her  rose  garden  superintending  the 
stable  boy  as  he  loosened  the  dirt  around  the  roots 
of  some  of  the  bushes.  She  had  returned  to  the 
Circle  C  for  a  day  or  two  to  give  some  directions 
in  the  absence  of  her  father.  Buck  and  the  other 
riders  came  to  her  for  orders  and  took  them  with 
out  contempt.  She  knew  the  cattle  business,  and 
they  knew  she  knew  it.  To  a  man  they  were  proud 
of  her,  of  her  spirit,  her  energy,  and  her  good  looks. 

This  rose  garden  was  one  evidence  of  her  enter 
prise.  No  ranch  in  the  county  could  show  such  a 
riot  of  bloom  as  the  Circle  C.  The  American 
Beauty,  the  Duchess,  the  La  France  bowed  grace 
fully  to  neighbors  of  a  dozen  other  choice  varieties. 
Kate  had  brought  this  glimpse  of  Eden  into  the 
desert.  She  knew  her  catalogues  by  heart  and  she 
had  the  loving  instinct  that  teaches  all  gardeners 
much  about  growing  things. 

The  rider  who  cantered  up  to  the  fence,  seeing 
her  in  her  well-hung  corduroy  skirt,  her  close-fitting 
blouse,  and  the  broad-rimmed  straw  hat  that  shielded 
her  dark  head  from  the  sun,  appreciated  the  fitness 

233 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

of  her  surroundings.  She  too  was  a  flower  of  the 
desert,  delicately  fashioned,  yet  vital  with  the  bloom 
of  health. 

At  the  clatter  of  hoofs  she  looked  up  from  the 
bush  she  was  trimming  and  at  once  rose  to  her 
feet.  With  the  change  in  position  she  showed  slim 
and  tall,  straight  as  a  young  poplar.  Beneath  their 
long  lashes  her  eyes  grew  dark  and  hard.  For 
the  man  who  had  drawn  to  a  halt  was  Cass  Fen- 
drick. 

From  the  pocket  of  his  shirt  he  drew  a  crumpled 
piece  of  stained  linen. 

"I've  brought  back  your  handkerchief,  Miss  Cul- 
lison." 

"What  have  you  done  with  my  father?" 

He  nodded  toward  the  Mexican  boy  and  Kate 
dismissed  the  lad.  When  he  had  gone  she  asked 
her  question  again  in  exactly  the  same  words. 

"If  we're  going  to  discuss  your  father  you  had 
better  get  your  quirt  again,"  the  sheepman  sug 
gested,  touching  a  scar  on  his  face. 

A  flush  swept  over  her  cheeks,  but  she  held  her 
voice  quiet  and  even.  "Where  is  Father?  What 
have  you  done  with  him?" 

He  swung  from  the  horse  and  threw  the  rein  to 
the  ground.  Then,  sauntering  to  the  gate,  he  let 
himself  in. 

"You've  surely  got  a  nice  posy  garden  here. 
234 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

Didn't  know  there  was  one  like  it  in  all  sunbaked 
Arizona." 

She  stood  rigid.  Her  unfaltering  eyes,  sloe-black 
in  the  pale  face,  never  lifted  from  him. 

"There's  only  one  thing  you  can  talk  to  me  about. 
Where  have  you  hidden  my  father?" 

"I've  heard  folks  say  he  did  himself  all  the  hiding 
that  was  done." 

"You  know  that  isn't  true.  That  convict  and 
you  have  hidden  him  somewhere.  We  have  evi 
dence  enough  to  convict  you  both." 

"Imagination,  most  of  it,  I  expect."  He  was  in 
specting  the  roses  and  inhaling  their  bloom. 

"Fact  enough  to  send  you  to  the  penitentiary." 

"I  ought  to  be  scared.  This  is  a  La  France,  ain't 
it?" 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me  what  you  have  done  with 
my  father." 

He  laughed  a  little  and  looked  at  her  with  eyes 
that  narrowed  like  those  of  a  cat  basking  in  the 
sun.  He  had  something  the  look  of  the  larger 
members  of  the  cat  family — the  soft  long  tread,  the 
compact  rippling  muscles  of  a  tame  panther,  and 
with  these  the  threat  that  always  lies  behind  its 
sleepy  wariness. 

"You're  a  young  lady  of  one  idea.  No  use  ar 
guing  with  you,  I  reckon." 

"Not  the  least  use.  I've  talked  with  Mrs.  Wylie." 
235 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

He  raised  his  eyebrows.     "Do  I  know  the  lady?" 

"She  will  know  you.    That  is  more  to  the  point/1 

"Did  she  say  she  knew  me?"  he  purred. 

"She  will  say  it  in  court — if  it  ever  comes  to 
that." 

"Just  what  will  she  say,  if  you  please." 

Kate  told  him  in  four  sentences  with  a  stinging 
directness  that  was  the  outstanding  note  of  her, 
that  and  a  fine  self-forgetful  courage. 

"Is  that  all?  Comes  to  this  then,  that  she  says 
I  heard  her  scream,  ran  in,  and  saved  your  father's 
life.  Is  that  a  penitentiary  offense?  I  don't  say 
it  oughtn't  to  be,  but  is  it?" 

"You  helped  the  villain  take  his  body  into  the 
cellar.  You  plotted  with  him  to  hold  Father  a 
prisoner  there." 

"Says  that,  does  she — that  she  overheard  us 
plotting?" 

"Of  course  she  did  not  overhear  what  you  said. 
You  took  good  care  of  that.  But  she  knew  you 
were  conspiring." 

"Just  naturally  knew  it  without  overhearing,"  he 
derided.  "And  of  course  if  I  was  in  a  plot  I  must 
have  been  Johnny-on-the-spot  a  good  deal  of  the 
time.  Hung  round  there  a-plenty,  I  expect?" 

He  had  touched  on  the  weak  spot  of  Mrs.  Wylie's 
testimony.  The  man  who  had  saved  Cullison's  life, 
after  a  long  talk  with  Blackwell,  had  gone  out  of 

236 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

the  Jack  of  Hearts  and  had  not  returned  so  far  as 
she  knew.  For  her  former  husband  had  sent  her 
on  an  errand  just  before  the  prisoner  was  taken 
away  and  she  did  not  know  who  had  helped  him. 

Kate  was  silent. 

"How  would  this  do  for  an  explanation?"  he 
suggested  lazily.  "We'll  say  just  for  the  sake  of 
argument  that  Mrs.  Wylie's  story  is  true,  that  I  did 
save  your  father's  life.  We'll  put  it  that  I  did  help 
carry  him  downstairs  where  it  was  cooler  and  that 
I  did  have  a  long  talk  with  the  fellow  Blackwell. 
What  would  I  be  talking  to  him  about,  if  I  wasn't 
reading  the  riot  act  to  him?  Ain't  it  likely  too 
that  he  would  be  sorry  for  what  he  did  while  he 
was  angry  at  your  father  for  butting  in  as  he  was 
having  trouble  with  his  wife?  And  after  he  had 
said  he  was  sorry  why  shouldn't  I  hit  the  road  out 
of  there?  There's  no  love  lost  between  me  and 
Luck  Cullison.  I  wasn't  under  any  obligations  to 
wrap  him  up  in  cotton  and  bring  him  back  this  side 
up  with  care  to  his  anxious  friends.  If  he  chose 
later  to  take  a  hike  out  of  town  on  p.d.q.  hurry 
up  business  I  ain't  to  blame.  And  I  reckon  you'll 
find  a  jury  will  agree  with  me." 

She  had  to  admit  to  herself  that  he  made  out  a 
plausible  case.  Not  that  she  believed  it  for  a  mo 
ment.  But  very  likely  a  jury  would.  As  for  his 
subsequent  silence  that  could  be  explained  by  his 

237 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

desire  not  to  mix  himself  in  the  affairs  of  one  with 
whom  he  was  upon  unfriendly  terms.  The  irre 
futable  fact  that  he  had  saved  the  life  of  Cullison 
would  go  a  long  way  as  presumptive  proof  of  his 
innocence. 

"I  see  you  are  wearing  your  gray  hat  again- 
What  have  you  done  with  the  brown  one?" 

She  had  flashed  the  question  at  him  so  unex 
pectedly  that  he  was  startled,  but  the  wary  mask 
fell  again  over  the  sardonic  face. 

"You  take  a  right  friendly  interest  in  my  hats, 
seems  to  me/' 

"I  know  this  much.  Father  took  your  hat  by 
mistake  from  the  club.  You  bought  a  brown  one 
half  an  hour  later.  You  used  Father's  to  manufac 
ture  evidence  against  him.  If  it  isn't  true  that  he 
is  your  prisoner  how  does  it  come  that  you  have 
your  gray  hat  again  ?  You  must  have  taken  it  from 
him." 

He  laughed  uneasily.  She  had  guessed  the  exact 
truth. 

"In  Arizona  there  are  about  forty  thousand  gray 
hats  like  this.  Do  you  figure  you  can  identify  this 
one,  Miss  Cullison?  And  suppose  your  fairy  tale 
of  the  Jack  of  Hearts  is  true,  couldn't  I  have 
swapped  hats  again  while  he  lay  there  uncon 
scious  ?" 

238 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

She  brushed  his  explanation  aside  with  a  woman's 
superb  indifference  to  logic. 

"You  can  talk  of  course.  I  don't  care.  It  is 
all  lies — lies.  You  have  kidnapped  Father  and  are 
holding  him  somewhere.  Don't  you  dare  to  hurt 
him.  If  you  should — Oh,  if  you  should — you  will 
wish  you  had  never  been  born."  The  fierceness  of 
her  passion  beat  upon  him  like  sudden  summer 
hail. 

He  laughed  slowly,  well  pleased.  A  lazy  smolder 
ing  admiration  shone  in  his  half  shuttered  eyes. 

"So  you're  going  to  take  it  out  of  me,  are  you?" 

A  creature  of  moods,  there  came  over  her  now  a 
swift  change.  Every  feature  of  her,  the  tense  pose, 
the  manner  of  defiant  courage,  softened  indescriba 
bly.  She  was  no  longer  an  enemy  bent  on  his  de 
struction  but  a  girl  pleading  for  the  father  she  loved. 

"Why  do  you  do  it  ?  You  are  a  man.  You  want 
to  fight  fair.  Tell  me  he  is  well.  Tell  me  you  will 
set  him  free." 

He  forgot  for  the  moment  that  he  was  a  man 
with  the  toils  of  the  law  closing  upon  him,  forgot 
that  his  success  and  even  his  liberty  were  at  stake. 
He  saw  only  a  girl  with  the  hunger  of  love  in  her 
wistful  eyes,  and  knew  that  it  lay  in  his  power  to 
bring  back  the  laughter  and  the  light  into  them. 

"Suppose  I  can't  fight  fair  any  longer.    Suppose 

239 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

I've  let  myself  get  trapped  and  it  isn't  up  to  me  but 
to  somebody  else." 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"Up  to  your  father,  say." 

"My  father?" 

"Yes.  How  could  I  turn  him  loose  when  the  first 
thing  he  did  would  be  to  swear  out  a  warrant  for 
my  arrest?" 

"But  he  wouldn't — not  if  you  freed  him." 

He  laughed  harshly.  "I  thought  you  knew  him. 
He's  hard  as  nails." 

She  recognized  the  justice  of  this  appraisal.  "But 
he  is  generous  too.  He  stands  by  his  friends." 

"I'm  not  his  friend,  not  so  you  could  notice  it." 
He  laughed  again,  bitterly.  "Not  that  it  matters. 
Of  course  I  was  just  putting  a  case.  Nothing  to 
it  really." 

He  was  hedging  because  he  thought  he  had  gone 
too  far,  but  she  appeared  not  to  notice  it.  Her 
eyes  had  the  faraway  look  of  one  who  communes 
with  herself. 

"If  I  could  only  see  him  and  have  a  talk  with 
him." 

"What  good  would  that  do?"  he  pretended  to 
scoff. 

But  he  watched  her  closely  nevertheless. 

"I  think  I  could  get  him  to  do  as  I  ask.  He 
nearly  always  does."  Her  gaze  went  swiftly  back 

240 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

to  him.  "Let  me  talk  with  him.  There's  a  reason 
why  he  ought  to  be  free  now,  one  that  would  appeal 
to  him." 

This  was  what  he  had  come  for,  but  now  that 
she  had  met  him  half  way  he  hesitated.  If  she 
should  not  succeed  he  would  be  worse  off  than  be 
fore.  He  could  neither  hold  her  a  prisoner  nor 
free  her  to  lead  the  pack  of  the  law  to  his  hiding 
place.  On  the  other  hand  if  Cullison  thought  they 
intended  to  keep  her  prisoner  he  would  have  to 
compromise.  He  dared  not  leave  her  in  the  hands 
of  Lute  Blackwell.  Fendrick  decided  to  take  a 
chance.  At  the  worst  he  could  turn  them  both  free 
and  leave  for  Sonora. 

"All  right.  I'll  take  you  to  him.  But  you'll  have 
to  do  as  I  say/' 

"Yes,"  she  agreed. 

"I'm  taking  you  to  back  my  play.  I  tell  yon 
straight  that  Blackwell  would  like  nothing  better 
than  to  put  a  bullet  through  your  father.  But  I've 
got  a  hold  on  the  fellow  that  ties  him.  He's  got 
to  do  as  I  say.  But  if  I'm  not  there  and  it  comes 
to  a  showdown — if  Bucky  O'Connor  for  instance 
happens  to  stumble  in — then  it's  all  off  with  Luck 
Cullison.  Blackwell  won't  hesitate  a  second.  He'll 
kill  your  father  and  make  a  belt  for  it.  That's 
one  reason  why  I'm  taking  you.  I  want  to  pile  up 
witnesses  against  the  fellow  so  as  to  make  him  go 

241 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

slow.  But  that's  not  my  main  object.  You've  got 
to  persuade  Luck  to  come  through  with  an  agree 
ment  to  let  go  of  that  Del  Oro  homestead  and  to 
promise  not  to  prosecute  us.  He  won't  do  it  to 
save  his  own  life.  He's  got  to  think  you  come  there 
as  my  prisoner.  See?  He's  got  to  wrestle  with 
the  notion  that  you're  in  the  power  of  the  damnedest 
villain  that  ever  went  unhung.  I  mean  Blackwell. 
Let  him  chew  on  that  proposition  a  while  and  see 
what  he  makes  of  it." 

She  nodded,  white  to  the  lips.  "Let  us  go  at 
once,  please.  I  don't  want  to  leave  Father  alone 
with  that  man."  She  called  across  to  the  corral. 
"Manuel,  saddle  the  pinto  for  me.  Hurry!" 

They  rode  together  through  the  wind-swept  sun 
lit  land.  From  time  to  time  his  lazy  glance  em 
braced  her,  a  supple  graceful  creature  at  perfect 
ease  in  the  saddle.  What  was  it  about  her  that 
drew  the  eye  so  irresistibly?  Prettier  girls  he  had 
often  seen.  Her  features  were  irregular,  mouth  and 
nose  too  large,  face  a  little  thin.  Her  contour  lacked 
the  softness,  the  allure  that  in  some  women  was 
an  unconscious  invitation  to  cuddle.  Tough  as 
whipcord  she  might  be,  but  in  her  there  flowed  a 
life  vital  and  strong;  dwelt  a  spirit  brave  and  un 
conquerable.  She  seemed  to  him  as  little  subtle  as 
any  woman  he  had  ever  met.  This  directness  came 
no  doubt  from  living  so  far  from  feminine  in- 

242 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

fluences.  But  he  had  a  feeling  that  if  a  man  once 
wakened  her  to  love,  the  instinct  of  sex  would 
spring  full-grown  into  being. 

They  talked  of  the  interests  common  to  the 
country,  of  how  the  spring  rains  had  helped  the 
range,  of  Shorty  McCabe's  broken  leg,  of  the  new 
school  district  that  was  being  formed.  Before  she 
knew  it  Kate  was  listening  to  his  defense  of  him 
self  in  the  campaign  between  him  and  her 
father.  He  found  her  a  partisan  beyond  chance 
of  conversion.  Yet  she  heard  patiently  his  justifi 
cation. 

"I  didn't  make  the  conditions  that  are  here.  I 
have  to  accept  them.  The  government  establishes 
forest  reserves  on  the  range.  No  use  ramming  my 
head  against  a  stone  wall.  Uncle  Sam  is  bigger 
than  we  are.  Your  father  and  his  friends  got  stub 
born.  I  didn't." 

"No,  you  were  very  wise,"  she  admitted  dryly. 

"You  mean  because  I  adapted  myself  to  the  con 
ditions  and  made  the  best  of  them.  Why  shouldn't 
I?"  he  flushed. 

"Father's  cattle  had  run  over  that  range  thirty 
years  almost.  What  right  had  you  to  take  it  from 
him?" 

"Conditions  change.  He  wouldn't  see  it.  I  did. 
As  for  the  right  of  it — well,  Luck  ain't  king  of  the 
valley  just  because  he  thinks  he  is." 

243 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

She  began  to  grow  angry.  A  dull  flush  burned 
through  the  tan  of  her  cheeks. 

"So  you  bought  sheep  and  brought  them  in  to 
ruin  the  range,  knowing  that  they  would  cut  the 
feeding  ground  to  pieces,  kill  the  roots  of  vegeta 
tion  with  their  sharp  hoofs,  and  finally  fill  the 
country  with  little  gullies  to  carry  off  the  water 
that  ought  to  sink  into  the  ground." 

"Sheep  ain't  so  bad  if  they  are  run  right." 

"It  depends  where  they  run.  This  is  no  place  for 
them." 

"That's  what  you  hear  your  father  say.  He's 
prejudiced." 

"And  you're  not,  I  suppose." 

"I'm  more  reasonable  than  he  is." 

"Yes,  you  are,"  she  flung  back  at  him  irritably. 

Open  country  lay  before  them.  They  had  come 
out  from  a  stretch  of  heavy  underbrush.  Catclaw 
had  been  snatching  at  their  legs.  Cholla  had  made 
the  traveling  bad  for  the  horses.  Now  she  put  her 
pony  to  a  canter  that  for  the  time  ended  conversa 
tion. 


244 


CHAPTER  XI 
A   COMPROMISE 

Luck  lay  stretched  full  length  on  a  bunk,  his  face 
to  the  roof,  a  wreath  of  smoke  from  his  cigar  travel 
ing  slowly  toward  the  ceiling  into  a  filmy  blue  cloud 
which  hung  above  him.  He  looked  the  personifica 
tion  of  vigorous  full-blooded  manhood  at  ease.  Ex 
perience  had  taught  him  to  take  the  exigencies  of 
his  turbulent  life  as  they  came,  nonchalantly,  to  the 
eye  of  an  observer  indifferently,  getting  all  the  com 
fort  the  situation  had  to  offer. 

By  the  table,  facing  him  squarely,  sat  Jose 
Dominguez,  a  neatly  built  Mexican  with  snapping 
black  eyes,  a  manner  of  pleasant  suavity,  and  an 
ever-ready  smile  that  displayed  a  double  row  of 
shining  white  teeth.  That  smile  did  not  for  an 
instant  deceive  Luck.  He  knew  that  Jose  had  no 
grudge  against  him,  that  he  was  a  very  respectable 
citizen,  and  that  he  would  regretfully  shoot  him  full 
of  holes  if  occasion  called  for  so  drastic  a  termination 
to  their  acquaintanceship.  For  Dominguez  had  a 
third  interest  in  the  C.  F.  ranch,  and  he  was  the 
last  man  in  the  world  to  sacrifice  his  business  for 
.  sentiment.  Having  put  the  savings  of  a  lifetime 
into  the  sheep  business,  he  did  not  propose  to  let 

245 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

anybody  deprive  him  of  his  profits  either  legally  or 
illegally. 

Luck  was  talking  easily,  in  the  most  casual  and 
amiable  of  voices. 

"No,  Dominguez,  the  way  I  look  at  it  you  and 
Cass  got  in  bad  this  time.  Here's  the  point.  In 
this  little  vendetta  of  ours  both  sides  were  trying 
to  keep  inside  the  law  and  win  out.  When  you 
elected  Bolt  sheriff  that  was  one  to  you.  When  you 
took  out  that  grazing  permit  and  cut  me  off  the 
reserve  that  was  another  time  you  scored  heavy.  A 
third  time  was  when  you  brought  'steen  thousand 
of  Mary's  little  lambs  baaing  across  the  desert. 
Well,  I  come  back  at  you  by  deeding  the  Circle  C 
to  my  girl  and  taking  up  the  Del  Oro  homestead. 
You  contest  and  lose.  Good  enough.  It's  up  to 
you  to  try  another  move." 

"Si,  Senor,  and  we  move  immediate.  We  per 
suade  you  to  visit  us  at  our  summer  mountain  home 
where  we  can  talk  at  leisure.  We  suggest  a  com 
promise." 

Luck  grinned.  "Your  notion  of  a  compromise 
and  mine  don't  tally,  Jose.  Your  idea  is  for  me 
to  give  you  the  apple  and  stand  by  while  you  eat  it. 
Trouble  is  that  both  parties  to  this  quarrel  are 
grabbers," 

"True,  but  Senor  Cullison  must  remember  his 
hands  are  tied  behind  him.  He  will  perhaps  not 

246 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

find  the  grabbing  good,"  his  opponent  suggested 
politely. 

"Come  to  that,  your  hands  are  tied  too,  my  friend. 
You  can't  hold  me  here  forever.  Put  me  out  of 
business  and  the  kid  will  surely  settle  your  hash  by 
proving  up  on  the  claim.  What  are  you  going  to 
do  about  it?" 

"Since  you  ask  me,  I  can  only  say  that  it  depends 
on  you.  Sign  the  relinquishment,  give  us  your  word 
not  to  prosecute,  and  you  may  leave  in  three  hours." 

Cullison  shook  his  head.  "That's  where  you  get 
in  wrong.  Buck  up  against  the  law  and  you  are 
sure  to  lose." 

"If  we  lose  you  lose  too,"  Dominguez  answered 
significantly. 

The  tinkle  of  hoofs  from  the  river  bed  in  the 
gulch  below  rose  through  the  clear  air.  The  Mexi 
can  moved  swiftly  to  the  door  and  presently  waved 
a  handkerchief. 

'What  gent  are  you  wig-wagging  to  now  ?"  Luck 
asked  from  the  bed.  "Thought  I  knew  all  you  bold 
bad  bandits  by  this  time.  Or  is  it  Cass  back  again  ?" 

"Yes,  it's  Cass.  There's  someone  with  him  too. 
It  is  a  woman,"  the  Mexican  discovered  in  apparent 
surprise. 

"A  woman!"  Luck  took  the  cigar  from  his 
mouth  in  vague  unease.  "What  is  he  doing  here 
with  a  woman?" 

247 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

The  Mexican  smiled  behind  his  open  hand.  "Your 
question  anticipates  mine,   Senor.     I  too  ask  the 


same." 


The  sight  of  his  daughter  in  the  doorway  went 
through  the  cattleman  with  a  chilling  shock.  She 
ran  forward  and  with  a  pathetic  cry  of  joy  threw 
herself  upon  him  where  he  stood.  His  hands  were 
tied  behind  him.  Only  by  the  turn  of  his  head 
and  by  brushing  his  unshaven  face  against  hers 
could  he  answer  her  caresses.  There  was  a  look  of 
ineffable  tenderness  on  his  face,  for  he  loved  her 
more  than  anything  else  on  earth. 

"Mr.  Fendrick  brought  me,"  she  explained  when 
articulate  expression  was  possible. 

"He  brought  you,  did  he?"  Luck  looked  across 
her  shoulder  at  his  enemy,  and  his  eyes  grew  hard 
as  jade. 

"Of  my  own  free  will,"  she  added. 

"I  promised  you  a  better  argument  than  those  I'd 
given  you.  Miss  Cullison  is  that  argument,"  Fen 
drick  said. 

The  cattleman's  set  face  had  a  look  more  deadly 
than  words.  It  told  Fendrick  he  would  gladly  have 
ikilled  him  where  he  stood.  For  Luck  knew  he  was 
cornered  and  must  yield.  Neither  Dominguez  nor 
Blackwell  would  consent  to  let  her  leave  otherwise. 

"He  brought  me  here  to  have  a  talk  with  you, 
248 


CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT 

***•  '•  '  " 

Dad.  You  must  sign  any  paper  he  wants  you  to 
sign." 

"And  did  he  promise  to  take  you  back  home  after 
our  talk?" 

"Miss  Cullison  would  not  want  to  leave  as  long 
as  her  father  was  here/'  Fendrick  answered  for 
her  glibly  with  a  smile  that  said  more  than  the 
words. 

"I'm  going  to  hold  you  responsible  for  bringing 
her  here." 

Fendrick  could  not  face  steadily  the  eyes  of  his 
foe.  They  bored  into  him  like  gimlets. 

"And  responsible  for  getting  her  back  home 
just  as  soon  as  I  say  the  word,"  Luck  added, 
the  taut  muscles  standing  out  in  his  clenched 
jaw. 

"I  expect  your  say-so  won't  be  final  in  this  matter, 
Luck.  But  I'll  take  the  responsibility.  Miss  Culli 
son  will  get  home  at  the  proper  time." 

"I'm  not  going  home  till  you  do,"  the  girl  broke 
in.  "Oh,  Dad,  we've  been  so  worried.  You  can't 
think." 

"You've  played  a  rotten  trick  on  me,  Fendrick. 
I  wouldn't  have  thought  it  even  of  a  sheepman." 

"No  use  you  getting  crazy  with  the  heat,  Culli 
son.  Your  daughter  asked  me  to  bring  her  here, 
and  I  brought  her.  Of  course  I'm  not  going  to 

249 


CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT 

break  my  neck  getting  her  home  where  she  can 
'phone  Bolt  or  Bucky  O'Connor  and  have  us  rounded 
up.  That  ain't  reasonable  to  expect.  But  I  aim  to 
do  what's  right.  We'll  all  have  supper  together 
like  sensible  folks.  Then  Jose  and  I  will  give  you 
the  cabin  for  the  night  if  you'll  promise  not  to 
attempt  to  escape.  In  the  morning  maybe  you'll 
see  things  different." 

Fendrick  calculated  not  without  reason  that  the 
best  thing  to  do  would  be  to  give  Kate  a  chance  for 
a  long  private  talk  with  her  father.  Her  influence 
would  be  more  potent  than  any  he  could  bring  to 
bear. 

After  supper  the  door  of  the  cabin  was  locked  and 
a  sentry  posted.  The  prisoners  were  on  parole,  but 
Cass  did  not  on  that  account  relax  his  vigilance. 
For  long  he  and  his  partner  could  hear  a  low  mur 
mur  of  voices  from  within  the  cabin.  At  length 
the  lights  went  out  and  presently  the  voices  died. 
But  all  through  the  night  one  or  the  other  of  the 
sheepmen  patroled  a  beat  that  circled  around  and 
around  the  house. 

Fendrick  did  not  broach  the  subject  at  issue  next 
morning  till  after  breakfast. 

"Well,  what  have  you  decided?"  he  asked  at  last. 

"Let's  hear  about  that  compromise.  What  is  it 
you  offer?"  Luck  demanded  gruffly. 

250 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

"You  sign  the  relinquishment  and  agree  not  to 
make  us  any  trouble  because  we  brought  you  here, 
and  you  may  go  by  two  o'clock." 

"You  want  to  reach  Saguache  with  the  relin 
quishment  in  time  to  file  it  before  I  could  get  to 
a  'phone.  You  don't  trust  me." 

Fendrick  smiled.  "When  we  let  you  go  we'rfe 
trusting  you  a  heap  more  than  we  would  most  men. 
But  of  course  you're  going  to  be  sore  about  this 
and  we  don't  want  to  put  temptation  in  your  way." 

"I  see.  Well,  I  accept  your  terms.  I'll  make 
you  no  legal  trouble.  But  I  tell  you  straight  this 
thing  ain't  ended.  It's  only  just  begun.  I'm  going 
to  run  you  out  of  this  country  before  I'm  through 
with  you." 

"Go  to  it.    We'll  see  whether  you  make  good." 

"Where  is  that  paper  you  want  me  to  sign?" 

Luck  dashed  off  his  signature  and  pushed  the 
document  from  him.  He  hated  the  necessity  that 
forced  him  to  surrender.  For  himself  he  would 
have  died  rather  than  give  way,  but  he  had  to  think 
of  his  daughter  and  of  his  boy  Sam  who  was  en 
gaged  in  a  plot  to  hold  up  a  train. 

His  stony  eyes  met  those  of  the  man  across  the 
table.  "No  need  for  me  to  tell  you  what  I  think 
of  this.  A  white  man  wouldn't  have  done  such  a 
trick.  It  takes  sheepherders  and  greasers  to  put 

251 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

across  a  thing  so  damnable  as  dragging  a  woman 
into  a  feud." 

Fendrick  flushed  angrily.  "It's  not  my  fault; 
you're  a  pigheaded  obstinate  chump.  I  used  the  only 
weapon  left  me." 

Kate,  standing  straight  and  tall  behind  her 
father's  chair,  looked  at  their  common  foe  with  un 
compromising  scorn.  "He  is  not  to  blame,  Dad. 
He  can't  help  it  because  he  doesn't  see  how  despica 
ble  a  thing  he  has  done." 

Again  the  blood  rushed  to  the  face  of  the  sheep 
man.  "I  reckon  that  will  hold  me  hitched  for  the 
present,  Miss  Cullison.  In  the  meantime  I'll  go 
file  that  homestead  entry  of  mine.  Nothing  like 
living  up  to  the  opinion  your  friends  have  of  you." 

He  wheeled  away  abruptly,  but  as  he  went  out 
of  the  door  one  word  came  to  him. 

"Friends!"  Kate  had  repeated,  and  her  voice 
told  fully  the  contempt  she  felt. 

At  exactly  two  o'clock  Dominguez  set  the  Culli- 
sons  on  the  homeward  road.  He  fairly  dripped 
apologies  for  the  trouble  to  which  he  and  his  friends 
tad  been  compelled  to  put  them. 

Blackwell,  who  had  arrived  to  take  his  turn  as 
guard,  stood  in  the  doorway  and  sulkily  watched 
them  go. 

From  the  river  bed  below  the  departing  guests 
252 


SHE  WAS  THANKING    GOD   THE  AFFAIR  WAS   KNDEO 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

looked  up  at  the  cabin  hidden  in  the  pines.  The 
daughter  was  thanking  God  in  her  heart  that  the 
affair  was  ended.  Her  father  was  vowing  to  him 
self  that  it  had  just  begun. 


253 


CHAPTER  XII 
AN   ARREST 

After  half  a  week  in  the  saddle  Lieutenant  Bucky 
O'Connor  of  the  Arizona  Rangers  and  Curly  Flan- 
drau  reached  Saguache  tired  and  travel-stained. 
They  had  combed  the  Rincons  without  having  met 
hide  or  hair  of  the  men  they  wanted.  Early  next 
morning  they  would  leave  town  again  and  this  time 
would  make  for  Soapy  Stone's  horse  ranch. 

Bucky  O'Connor  was  not  disheartened.  Though 
he  was  the  best  man  hunter  in  Arizona,  it  was  all 
in  the  day's  work  that  criminals  should  sometimes 
elude  him.  But  with  Curly  the  issue  was  a  per 
sonal  one.  He  owed  Luck  Cullison  a  good  deal  and 
his  imagination  had  played  over  the  picture  of  that 
moment  when  he  could  go  to  Kate  and  tell  her  he 
had  freed  her  father. 

After  reaching  town  the  first  thing  each  of  them 
did  was  to  take  a  bath,  the  second  to  get  shaved. 
From  the  barber  shop  they  went  to  the  best  res 
taurant  in  Saguache.  Curly  was  still  busy  with 
his  pie  a  la  mode  when  Burridge  Thomas,  United 
States  Land  Commissioner  for  that  district,  took  the 
seat  opposite  and  told  to  O'Connor  a  most  interest 
ing  piece  of  news. 

254 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

They  heard  him  to  an  end  without  interruption. 
Then  Curly  spoke  one  word.  "Fendrick." 

"Yes,  sir,  Cass  Fendrick.  Came  in  about  one 
o'clock  and  handed  me  the  relinquishment  just  as 
I've  been  telling  you." 

"Then  filed  on  the  claim  himself,  you  said." 

"Yes,  took  it  up  himself." 

"Sure  the  signature  to  the  relinquishment  was 
genuine  ?" 

"I'd  take  oath  to  it.  As  soon  as  he  had  gone  I 
got  out  the  original  filing  and  compared  the  two. 
Couldn't  be  any  possible  mistake.  Nobody  could 
have  forged  the  signature.  It  is  like  Luck  himself, 
strong  and  forceful  and  decided." 

"We're  not  entirely  surprised,  Mr.  Thomas," 
Lieutenant  O'Connor  told  the  commissioner.  "In 
point  of  fact  we've  rather  been  looking  for  some 
thing  of  the  kind." 

"Then  you  know  where  Luck  is?"  Thomas,  a 
sociable  garrulous  soul,  leaned  forward  eagerly. 

"No,  we  don't.  But  we've  a  notion  Fendrick 
knows."  Bucky  gave  the  government  appointee  his 
most  blandishing  smile.  "Of  course  we  know  you 
won't  talk  about  this,  Mr.  Thomas.  Can  we  depend 
on  your  deputies?" 

"I'll  speak  to  them." 

"We're  much  obliged  to  you.  This  clears  up  a 
point  that  was  in  doubt  to  us.  By  the  way,  what 

255 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT      • 

was  the  date  when  the  relinquishment  was  signed?" 

"Today." 

"And  who  was  the  notary  that  witnessed  it?" 

"Dominguez.  He's  a  partner  of  Fendrick  in  the 
sheep  business." 

"Quite  a  family  affair,  isn't  it.  Well,  I'll  let  you 
know  how  things  come  out,  Mr.  Thomas.  You'll 
be  interested  to  know.  Have  a  cigar." 

Bucky  rose.  "See  you  later,  Curly.  Sorry  I 
have  to  hurry,  Mr.  Thomas,  but  I've  thought  of 
something  I'll  have  to  do  right  away." 

Bucky  followed  El  Molino  Street  to  the  old  plaza 
and  cut  across  it  to  the  Hotel  Wayland.  After  a 
sharp  scrutiny  of  the  lobby  and  a  nod  of  recogni 
tion  to  an  acquaintance  he  sauntered  to  the  desk 
and  looked  over  the  register.  There,  among  the 
arrivals  of  the  day,  was  the  entry  he  had  hoped 
to  see, 

Cass  Fendrick,  C.  F.  Ranch,  Arizona. 

The  room  that  had  been  assigned  to  him  was  212. 

"Anything  you  want  in  particular,  Lieutenant?" 
the  clerk  asked. 

"No-o.    Just  looking  to  see  who  came  in  to-day." 

He  turned  away  and  went  up  the  stairs,  ignoring 
the  elevator.  On  the  second  floor  he  found  212. 
In  answer  to  his  knock  a  voice  said  "Come  in." 

256 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

Opening  the  door,  he  stepped  in,  closed  it  behind 
him,  and  looked  at  the  man  lying  in  his  shirt  sleeves 
on  the  bed, 

"Evening,  Cass." 

Fendrick  put  down  his  newspaper  but  did  not 
rise.  "Evening,  Bucky." 

Their  eyes  held  to  each  other  with  the  level  even 
gaze  of  men  who  recognize  a  worthy  antagonist. 

"I've  come  to  ask  a  question  or  two." 

"Kick  them  out." 

"First,  I  would  like  to  know  what  you  paid  Luck 
Cullison  for  his  Del  Oro  claim." 

"Thinking  of  buying  me  out?"  was  the  ironical 
retort  of  the  man  on  the  bed. 

"Not  quite,  I've  got  another  reason  for  wanting 
to  know." 

"Then  you  better  ask  Cullison.  The  law  says 
that  if  a  man  sells  a  relinquishment  he  can't  file 
on  another  claim.  If  he  surrenders  it  for  nothing 
he  can.  Now  Luck  may  have  notions  of  filing  on 
another  claim.  You  can  see  that  we'll  have  to  take 
it  for  granted  he  gave  me  the  claim." 

It  was  so  neat  an  answer  and  at  the  same  time 
so  complete  a  one  that  O'Connor  could  not  help 
appreciating  it.  He  smiled  and  tried  again. 

"We'll  put  that  question  in  the  discard.  &  That 
paper  was  signed  by  Luck  to-day.  Where  was  he 
when  you  got  it  from  him?" 

257 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND   STRAIGHT 

"Sure  it  was  signed  to-day?  Couldn't  it  have 
been  ante-dated?" 

"You  know  better  than  I  do.  When  was  it 
signed?'' 

Fendrick  laughed.  He  was  watching  the  noted 
officer  of  rangers  with  narrowed  wary  eyes.  "On 
advice  of  counsel  I  decline  to  answer." 

"Sorry,  Cass.  That  leaves  me  only  one  thing 
to  do.  You're  under  arrest." 

"For  what?"  demanded  the  sheepman  sharply. 

"For  abducting  Luck  Cullison  and  holding  him 
prisoner  without  his  consent." 

Lazily  Cass  drawled  a  question.  "Are  you  right 
sure  Cullison  can't  be  found?" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Are  you  right  sure  he  ain't  at  home  attending 
to  his  business?" 

"Has  he  come  back?" 

"Maybe  so.    I'm  not  Luck  Cullison's  keeper." 

Bucky  thought  he  understood.  In  return  for  the 
relinquishment  Cullison  had  been  released.  Know 
ing  Luck  as  he  did,  it  was  hard  for  him  to  see  how 
pressure  enough  had  been  brought  to  bear  to  move 
him. 

"May  I  use  your  'phone?"  he  asked. 

"Help  yourself." 

Fendrick  pretended  to  have  lost  interest.  He  re 
turned  to  his  newspaper,  but  his  ears  were  alert  to 

258 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

catch  what  went  on  over  the  wires.  It  was  always 
possible  that  Cullison  might  play  him  false  and 
break  the  agreement.  Cass  did  not  expect  this,  for 
the  owner  of  the  Circle  C  was  a  man  whose  word 
was  better  than  most  men's  bond.  But  the  agree 
ment  had  been  forced  upon  him  through  a  trick. 
How  far  he  might  feel  this  justified  him  in  ignor 
ing  it  the  sheepman  did  not  know. 

O'Connor  got  the  Circle  C  on  long  distance.  It 
was  the  clear  contralto  of  a  woman  that  answered 
his  "Hello!" 

"Is  this  Miss  Cullison?"  he  asked.  Almost  at 
once  he  added :  O'Connor  of  the  rangers  is  speak 
ing.  I've  heard  your  father  is  home  again.  Is 
that  true  ?" 

An  interval  followed  during  which  the  ranger 
officer  was  put  into  the  role  of  a  listener.  His 

occasional    "Yes Yes Yes"    punctuated   the 

rapid  murmur  that  reached  Fendrick. 

Presently  Bucky  asked  a  question.  "On  his  way 
to  town  now?" 

Again  the  rapid  murmur. 

"I'll  attend  to  that,  Miss  Cullison.  I  am  in  Fen- 
drick's  room  now.  Make  your  mind  easy." 

Bucky  hung  up  and  turned  to  the  sheepman.  The 
latter  showed  him  a  face  of  derision.  He  had 
gathered  one  thing  that  disquieted  him,  but  he  did 
not  intend  to  let  O'Connor  know  it 

259 


CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT 

"Well?"  he  jeered.  "Find  friend  Cullison  in 
tolerable  health?" 

"I've  been  talking  with  his  daughter." 

"I  judged  as  much,    Miss  Spitfire  well?" 

"Miss  Cullison  didn't  mention  her  health.  We 
were  concerned  about  yours." 

"Yes?" 

"Cullison  is  headed  for  town  and  his  daughter  is 
afraid  he  is  on  the  warpath  against  you." 

"You  don't  say." 

"She  wanted  me  to  get  you  out  of  her  father's 
Way  until  he  has  cooled  down." 

"Very  kind  of  her." 

"She's  right,  too.  You  and  Luck  mustn't  meet 
yet.  Get  out  of  here  and  hunt  cover  in  the  hills  for 
a  few  days.  You  know  why  better  than  I  do." 

"How  can  I  when  I'm  under  arrest?"  Fendrick 
mocked. 

"You're  not  under  arrest.  Miss  Cullison  says 
her  father  has  no  charge  to  bring  against  you." 

"Good  of  him." 

"So  you  can  light  a  shuck  soon  as  you  want  to." 

"Which  won't  be  in  any  hurry." 

"Don't  make  any  mistake.  Luck  Cullison  is  £ 
dangerous  man  when  he  is  roused." 

The  sheepman  looked  at  the  ranger  with  opaque 
stony  eyes.  "If  Luck  Cullison  is  looking  for  me  he 

260 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

is  liable  to  find  me,  and  he  won't  have  to  go  into 
the  hills  to  hunt  me  either." 

Bucky  understood  perfectly.  According  to  the 
code  of  the  frontier  no  man  could  let  himself  be 
driven  from  town  by  the  knowledge  that  another 
man  was  looking  for  him  with  a  gun.  There  are  in 
the  Southwest  now  many  thousands  who  do  not  live 
by  the  old  standard,  who  are  anchored  to  law  and 
civilization  as  a  protection  against  primitive  pas 
sions.  But  Fendrick  was  not  one  of  these.  He  had 
deliberately  gone  outside  of  the  law  in  his  feud 
with  the  cattleman.  Now  he  would  not  repudiate 
the  course  he  had  chosen  and  hedge  because  of  the 
danger  it  involved.  He  was  an  aspirant  to  leader 
ship  among  the  tough  hard-bitted  denizens  of  the 
sunbaked  desert.  That  being  so,  he  had  to  see  his 
feud  out  to  a  fighting  finish  if  need  be. 

"There  are  points  about  this  case  you  have  over 
looked,"  Bucky  told  him. 

"Maybe  so.  But  the  important  one  that  sticks 
out  like  a  sore  thumb  is  that  no  man  living  can 
serve  notice  on  me  to  get  out  of  town  because  he  is 
coming  on  the  shoot." 

"Luck  didn't  serve  any  such  notice.  All  his 
daughter  knows  is  that  he  is  hot  under  the  collar. 
L^ok  at  things  reasonably,  Cass.  You've  caused 
that  young  lady  a  heap  of  trouble  already.  Are 

261 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND   STRAIGHT 

you  going  to  unload  a  lot  more  on  her  just  because 
you  want  to  be  pigheaded.  Only  a  kid  struts  around 
and  hollers  'Who's  afraid?'  No,  it's  up  to  you 
to  pull  out,  not  because  of  Luck  Cullison  but  on 
Sccount  of  his  daughter." 

"Who  is  such  a  thorough  friend  of  mine,"  the 
sheepman  added  with  his  sardonic  grin. 

"What  do  you  care  about  that?  She's  a  girl.  I 
don't  know  the  facts,  but  I  can  guess  them.  She  and 
Luck  will  stand  pat  on  what  they  promised  you. 
Don't  you  owe  her  something  for  that  ?  Seems  to  me 
a  white  man  wouldn't  make  her  any  more  worry." 

"It's  because  I  am  a  white  man  that  I  can't  dodge 
a  fight  when  it's  stacked  up  for  me,  Bucky." 

He  said  it  with  a  dogged  finality  that  was  un 
shaken,  but  O'Connor  made  one  more  effort. 

"Nobody  will  know  why  you  left." 

"I  would  know,  wouldn't  I  ?  I've  got  to  go  right 
on  living  with  myself.  I  tell  you  straight  I'm 
going  to  see  it  out." 

Bucky's  jaw  clamped.  "Not  if  I  know  it.  You're 
under  arrest" 

Fendrick  sat  up  in  surprise.  "What  for?"  he 
(demanded  angrily. 

"For  robbing  the  W.  &  S.  Express  Company." 

"Hell,  Bucky.    You  don't  believe  that." 

"Never  mind  what  I  believe.  There's  some  evi 
dence  against  you — enough  to  justify  me." 

262 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

"You  want  to  get  me  out  of  Cullison's  way. 
That's  all." 

"If  you  like  to  put  it  so." 

"I  won't  stand  for  it.    That  ain't  square." 

"You'll  stand  for  it,  my  friend.  I  gave  you  a 
chance  to  clear  out  and  you  wouldn't  take  it." 

"I  wouldn't  because  I  couldn't.  Don't  make  any 
mistake  about  this.  I'm  not  looking  for  Luck.  I'm 
attending  to  my  business.  Arrest  him  if  you  want 
to  stop  trouble." 

There  came  a  knock  on  the  door.  It  opened  to 
admit  Luck  Cullison.  He  shut  it  and  put  his  back 
to  it,  while  his  eyes,  hard  as  hammered  iron,  swept 
past  the  officer  to  fix  on  Fendrick. 

The  latter  rose  quickly  from  the  bed,  but  O'Con 
nor  flung  him  back. 

"Don't  forget  you're  my  prisoner." 

"He's  your  prisoner,  is  he  ?"  This  was  a  turn  of 
affairs  for  which  Luck  was  manifestly  unprepared: 
"Well,  I've  come  to  have  a  little  settlement  with 
him." 

Fendrick,  tense  as  a  coiled  spring,  watched  him 
warily.  "Can't  be  any  too  soon  to  suit  me." 

Clear  cut  as  a  pair  of  scissors  through  papei 
Bucky  snapped  out  his  warning.  "Nothing  stirring, 
gentlemen.  I'll  shoot  the  first  man  that  makes  a 


move." 


'Are  you  in  this,  Bucky  ?"  asked  Cullison  evenly. 
263 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

'^You're  right  I  am.    He's  my  prisoner." 

"What  for?" 

'Tor  robbing  the  W.  &  S." 

Luck's  face  lit.  "Have  you  evidence  enough  to 
cinch  him?" 

"Not  enough  yet.  But  I'll  take  no  chances  on 
his  getting  away." 

The  cattleman's  countenance  reflected  his  thoughts 
as  his  decision  hung  in  the  balance.  He  longed  to 
pay  his  debt  on  the  spot.  But  on  the  other  hand 
he  had  been  a  sheriff  himself.  As  an  outsider  he 
had  no  right  to  interfere  between  an  officer  and  his 
captive.  Besides,  if  there  was  a  chance  to  send 
Fendrick  over  the  road  that  would  be  better  than 
killing.  It  would  clear  up  his  own  reputation,  to 
some  extent  under  a  cloud. 

"All  right,  Bucky.  If  the  law  wants  him  I'll  step 
aside  for  the  time." 

The  sheepman  laughed  in  his  ironic  fashion.  His 
amusement  mocked  them  both.  "Most  as  good  as  a 
play  of  the  movies,  ain't  it?  But  we'd  ought  all 
to  have  our  guns  out  to  make  it  realistic." 

But  in  his  heart  he  did  not  jeer.  For  the  situa 
tion  had  been  nearer  red  tragedy  than  melodrama. 
The  resource  and  firmness  of  Bucky  O'Connor  had 
alone  made  it  possible  to  shave  disaster  by  a  hair's 
breadth  and  no  more. 


264 


CHAPTER  XIII 
A   CONVERSATION 

Bucky  O'Connor  and  his  prisoner  swung  down 
the  street  side  by  side  and  turned  in  at  the  head 
quarters  of  the  rangers.  The  officer  switched  on 
the  light,  shut  the  door,  and  indicated  a  chair.  From 
his  desk  he  drew  a  box  of  cigars.  He  struck  a 
match  and  held  it  for  the  sheepman  before  using  it 
himself. 

Relaxed  in  his  chair,  Fendrick  spoke  with  rather 
elaborate  indolence. 

"What's  your  evidence,  Bucky?  You  can't  hold 
me  without  any.  What  have  you  got  that  ties  me 
to  the  W.  &  S.  robbery?" 

"Why,  that  hat  play,  Cass?  You  let  on  you  had 
shot  Cullison's  hat  off  his  head  while  he  was  making 
his  getaway.  Come  to  find  out  you  had  his  hat  in 
your  possession  all  the  time." 

"Does  that  prove  I  did  it  myself?" 

"Looks  funny  you  happened  to  be  right  there 
while  the  robbery  was  taking  place  and  that  you 
had  Luck's  hat  with  you." 

The  sleepy  tiger  look  lay  warity  in  the  sheepman's 
eyes.  "That's  what  the  dictionaries  call  a  coinci 
dence,  Bucky." 

265 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

"They  may.    I'm  not  sure  I  do." 

"Fact,  just  the  same." 

"I've  a  notion  it  will  take  some  explaining." 

"Confidentially?" 

"Confidentially  what?" 

'"The  explanation.    You  won't  use  it  against  me/* 

"Not  if  you  weren't  in  the  hold-up." 

"I  wasn't.  This  is  the  way  it  happened.  You 
know  Cullison  was  going  to  prove  up  on  that  Del 
Oro  claim  on  Thursday.  That  would  have  put  the 
C.  F.  ranch  out  of  business.  I  knew  he  was  in  town 
and  at  the  Del  Mar,  but  I  didn't  know  where  he 
would  be  next  day.  He  had  me  beat.  I  couldn't 
see  any  way  out  but  to  eat  crow  and  offer  a  com 
promise.  I  hated  it  like  hell,  but  it  was  up  to  me 
to  hunt  Luck  up  and  see  what  he  would  do.  His 
hat  gave  me  an  excuse  to  call.  So  I  started  out 
and  came  round  the  corner  of  San  Mateo  Street 
just  in  time  to  see  the  robber  pull  out.  Honest, 
the  fellow  did  shape  up  a  little  like  Luck.  Right 
then  I  got  the  darned  fool  notion  of  mixing  him 
up  in  it.  I  threw  his  hat  down  and  shot  a  hole  in 
it,  then  unlocked  the  door  of  the  express  office 
carrying  the  hat  in  my  hand.  That's  all  there  was 
to  it." 

"Pretty  low-down  trick,  wasn't  it,  tc  play  on  an 
innocent  man  ?" 

"He  was  figuring  to  do  me  up.  J  don't  say  it 
266 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

was  exactly  on  the  square,  but  I  was  sore  at  him 
clear  through.  I  wanted  to  get  him  into  trouble. 
I  had  to  do  something  to  keep  his  mind  busy  till  I 
could  turn  round  and  think  of  a  way  out/' 

Bucky  reflected,  looking  at  the  long  ash  on  his 
cigar.  "The  man  that  made  the  raid  of  the  W.  & 
S.  shaped  up  like  Luck,  you  say?" 

"In  a  general  way." 

The  ranger  brushed  the  ash  from  the  end  of  the 
cigar  into  the  tray.  Then  he  looked  quietly  at  Fen- 
drick.  "Who  was  the  man,  Cass  ?" 

"I  thought  I  told  you " 

"You  did.  But  you  lied.  It  was  a  moonlight 
night.  And  there's  an  arc  light  at  that  corner.  By 
your  own  story,  the  fellow  took  his  mask  off  as  he 
swung  to  his  horse.  You  saw  his  face  just  as  dis 
tinctly  as  I  see  yours  now." 

"No,  I  reckon  not,"  Fendrick  grinned. 

"Meaning  you  won't  tell?" 

"That's  not  how  I  put  it,  Bucky.  You're  the  one 
that  says  I  recognized  him.  Come  to  think  of  it, 
I'm  not  sure  the  fellow  didn't  wear  his  mask  till  he 
was  out  of  sight." 

"I  am." 

"You  are." 

"Yes.  The  mask  was  found  just  outside  the 
office  where  the  man  dropped  it  before  he  got  into 
the  saddle." 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

"So?" 

"That's  not  all.  Curly  and  I  found  something 
else,  too — the  old  shirt  from  which  the  cloth  was 
cut." 

The  sheepman  swept  him  with  one  of  his  side° 
jng,  tiger-cat  glances.     "Where  did  you  find  it?'9 
"In  a  barrel  back  of  the  Jack  of  Hearts." 
"Now,  if  you  only  knew  who  put  it  there,"  sug 
gested  Cass,  with  ironic  hopefulness. 

"It  happens  I  do.  I  have  a  witness  who  saw  a 
man  shove  that  old  shirt  down  in  the  barrel  after 
tearing  a  piece  off." 

"Your  witness  got  a  name,  Bucky?" 
"I'll  not  mention  the  name  now.     If  it  became 
too  well  known  something  might  happen  to  my  wit 
ness." 

Fendrick  nodded.      "You're   wiser  there.      She 
wouldn't  be  safe,  not  if  a  certain  man  happened  to 
hear  what  you've  just  told  me." 
"I  didn't  say  she,  Cass." 

"No,  I  said  it.     Your  witness  is  Mrs.  Wylie." 
"Maybe,  then,  you  can  guess  the  criminal,  too." 
"Maybe  I  could,  but  I'm  not  going  to  try." 
"Then  we'll  drop  that  subject.     I'll  ask  you  a 
question.     Can  you  tell  me  where  I  can  find  a  pa 
roled   convict  named  Blackwell?" 

Fendrick  shook  his  head.  "Don't  know  the  gen 
tleman.  A  friend  of  yours  ?" 

268 


CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT 

"One  of  yours.  Better  come  through,  Cass.  I'm 
satisfied  you  weren't  actually  in  this  robbery,  but 
there  is  such  a  thing  as  accessory  after  the  fact. 
Now,  I'm  going  to  get  that  man.  If  you  want  to 
put  yourself  right,  it's  up  to  you  to  give  me  the 
information  I  want.  Where  is  he?" 

"Haven't  got  him  in  my  pocket." 

The  officer  rose,  not  one  whit  less  amiable.  "I 
didn't  expect  you  to  tell  me.  That's  all  right.  I'll 
find  him.  But  in  the  meantime  I'll  have  to  lock  you 
up  till  this  thing  is  settled." 

From  his  inside  coat  pocket,  Fendrick  drew  a 
sealed  envelope,  wrote  the  date  across  the  front, 
and  handed  it  to  O'Connor. 

"Keep  this,  Bucky,  and  remember  that  I  gave  it 
to  you.  Put  it  in  a  safe  place,  but  don't  open  the 
envelope  till  I  give  the  word.  Understand?" 

"I  hear  what  you  say,  but  I  don't  understand 
what  you  mean — what's  back  of  it." 

"It  isn't  intended  that  you  should  yet.  I'm  pro 
tecting  myself.  That's  all." 

"I  guessed  that  much.  Well,  if  you're  ready,  I'll 
arrange  your  lodgings  for  the  nighjj^  Cass.  Ij 
reckon  I'll  put  you  up  at  a  hotel  with  one  *1  &2 
boys." 

"Just  as  you  say." 

Fendrick  rose,  and  the  two  men  passed  into  the 
street. 

269 


CHAPTER  XIV 
A   TOUCH   OF   THE   THIRD   DEGREE 

Cullison  was  not  the  man  to  acknowledge  himself 
beaten  so  long  as  there  was  a  stone  unturned.  In 
the  matter  of  the  Del  Oro  homestead  claim  he 
moved  at  once.  All  of  the  county  commissioners 
were  personal  friends  of  his,  and  he  went  to  them 
with  a  plan  for  a  new  road  to  run  across  the  Del 
Oro  at  the  point  where  the  canon  walls  opened  to  a 
valley. 

"What  in  Mexico  is  the  good  of  a  county  road 
there,  Luck?  Can't  run  a  wagon  over  them  moun 
tains  and  down  to  the  river.  Looks  to  me  like  it 
would  be  a  road  from  nowhere  to  nowhere,"  Alec 
Flandrau  protested,  puzzled  at  his  friend's  request. 

"I  done  guessed  it,"  Yesler  announced  with  a 
grin.  "Run  a  county  road  through,  and  Cass  Fen- 
drick  can't  fence  the  river  off  from  Luck's  cows. 
Luck  ain'f  aiming  to  run  any  wagon  over  that 
road." 

The  Map  of  Texas  man  got  up  and  stamped  wittf, 
delight.  "I  get  you.  We'll  learn  Cass  to  take  a 
joke,  by  gum.  Luck  sure  gets  a  county  road  for 
his  cows  to  amble  over  down  to  the  water.  Cass 
can  have  his  darned  old  homestead  now." 

270 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

When  Fendrick  heard  that  the  commissioners 
had  condemned  a  right  of  way  for  a  road  through 
his  homestead  he  unloaded  on  the  desert  air  a  rich 
vocabulary.  For  here  would  have  been  a  simple 
way  out  of  his  trouble  if  he  had  only  thought  of  it. 
Instead  of  which  he  had  melodramatically  kid 
napped  his  enemy  and  put  himself  within  reach  of 
the  law  and  of  Cullison's  vengeance. 

Nor  did  Luck  confine  his  efforts  to  self-defense. 
He  knew  that  to  convict  Fendrick  of  the  robbery 
he  must  first  lay  hands  upon  Blackwell. 

It  was,  however,  Bucky  that  caught  the  convict. 
The  two  men  met  at  the  top  of  a  mountain  pass. 
Blackwell,  headed  south,  was  slipping  down  toward 
Stone's  horse  ranch  when  they  came  face  to  face. 
Before  the  bad  man  had  his  revolver  out,  he  found 
himself  looking  down  the  barrel  of  the  ranger's 
leveled  rifle. 

"I  wouldn't,"  Bucky  murmured  genially. 

"What  you  want  me  for?"  Blackwell  demanded 
sulkily. 

"For  the  W.  &  S.  robbery." 

"I'm  not  the  man  you  want.  My  name's  John 
son." 

"I'll  put  up  with  you  till  I  find  the  man  I  do 
want,  Mr.  Johnson,"  Bucky  told  him  cheerfully. 
"Climb  down  from  that  horse.  No,  I  wouldn't  try 
that.  Keep  your  hands  up." 

271 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

With  his  prisoner  in  front  of  him,  O'Connor 
turned  townward.  They  jogged  down  out  of  the 
hills  through  dark  gulches  and  cactus-clad  arroyos. 
The  sharp  catclaw  caught  at  their  legs.  Tangled 
mesquite  and  ironwood  made  progress  slow.  They 
'reached  in  time  Apache  Desert,  and  here  Bucky 
camped.  He  hobbled  his  prisoner's  feet  and  put 
around  his  neck  a  rope,  the  other  end  of  which  was 
tied  to  his  own  waist.  Then  he  built  a  small  fire 
of  greasewood  ar  J  made  coffee  for  them  both.  The 
prisoner  slept,  but  his  captor  did  not.  For  he  could 
take  no  chances  of  an  escape. 

The  outlines  of  the  mountain  ranges  loomed 
shadowy  and  dim  on  both  sides.  The  moonlight 
played  strange  tricks  with  the  mesquit  and  the  giant 
cactus,  a  grove  of  which  gave  to  the  place  an  awe 
some  aspect  of  some  ghostly  burial  ground  of  a 
long  vanished  tribe. 

Next  day  they  reached  Saguache.  Bucky  took 
his  prisoner  straight  to  the  ranger's  office  and  tele 
phoned  to  Cullison. 

"Don't  I  get  anything  to  eat?"  growled  the  con- 
yict  while  they  waited. 

"When  I'm  ready." 

Bucky  believed  in  fair  play.  The  man  had  not 
eaten  since  last  night.  But  then  neither  had  he.  It 
happened  that  Bucky  was  tough  as  whipcord,  as 
supple  and  untiring  as  a  hickory  sapling.  Well, 

272 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

Blackwell  was  a  pretty  hard  nut  to  crack,  too.  The 
lieutenant  did  not  know  anything  about  book 
psychology,  but  he  had  observed  that  hunger  and 
weariness  try  out  the  stuff  that  is  in  a  man.  Under 
the  sag  of  them  many  a  will  snaps  that  would  have 
held  fast  if  sustained  by  a  good  dinner  and  a  sound 
night's  sleep.  This  is  why  so  many  "bad  men,'* 
gun  fighters  with  a  reputation  for  gameness,  wilt 
on  occasion  like  whipped  curs.  In  the  old  days 
this  came  to  nearly  every  terror  of  the  border. 
Some  day  when  he  had  a  jumping  toothache,  cr 
when  his  nerves  were  frayed  from  a  debauch,  a 
silent  stranger  walked  into  his  -{fresence,  looked 
long  and  steadily  into  his  eyes,  and  ended  forever 
his  reign  of  lawlessness.  Sometimes  the  two-gun 
man  was  "planted,"  sometimes  he  subsided  into 
innocuous  peace  henceforth. 

The  ranger  had  a  shrewd  instinct  that  the  hour 
had  come  to  batter  down  this  fellow's  dogged  re 
sistance.  Therefore  he  sent  for  Cullison,  the  man 
whom  the  convict  most  feared. 

The  very  look  of  the  cattleman,  with  that  grim, 
hard,  capable  aspect,  shook  Blackwell's  nerve. 

"So  you've  got  him,  Bucky." 

'  Luck  looked  the  man  over  as  he  sat  handcuffed 
beside  the  table  and  read  in  his  face  both  terror 
and  a  sly,  dogged  cunning.  Once  before  the  fel 
low  had  been  put  through  the  third  degree.  Some- 

273 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

thing  of  the  sort  he  fearfully  expected  now.  Vil 
lainy  is  usually  not  consistent.  This  hulking  bully 
should  have  been  a  hardy  ruffian.  Instead,  he 
shrank  like  a  schoolgirl  from  the  thought  of  physi 
cal  pain. 

"Stand  up/'  ordered  Cullison  quietly. 

Blackwell  got  to  his  feet  at  once.  He  could  not 
help  it,  even  though  the  fear  in  his  eyes  showed 
that  he  cowered  before  the  anticipated  attack. 

"Don't  hit  me/'  he  whined. 

Luck  knew  the  man  sweated  under  the  punish 
ment  his  imagination  called  up,  and  he  understood 
human  nature  too  well  to  end  the  suspense  by  mak 
ing  real  the  vision.  For  then  the  worst  would  be 
past,  since  the  actual  is  never  equal  to  what  is  ex 
pected. 

"Well?"  Luck  watched  him  with  the  look  of 
tempered  steel  in  his  hard  eyes. 

The  convict  flinched,  moistened  his  lips  with  his 
tongue,  and  spoke  at  last. 

"I — I — Mr.  Cullison,  I  want  to  explain.  Every 
man  is  liable  to  make  a  mistake — go  off  half  cocked. 
I  didn't  do  right.  That's  a  fac'.  I  can  explain  all 
that,  but  I'm  sick  now — awful  sick." 

Cullison    laughed    harshly.      "You'll    be    sicker 


soon." 


"You  promised  you  wouldn't  do  anything  if  we 
274 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

turned  you  loose,"  the  man  plucked  up  courage  to 
remind  him. 

"I  promised  the  law  wouldn't  do  anything. 
You'll  understand  the  distinction  presently." 

"Mr.  Cullison,  please I  admit  I  done 

wrong.  I  hadn't  ought  to  have  gone  in  with  Cass 
Fendrick.  He  wanted  me  to  kill  you,  but  I 
wouldn't." 

With  that  unwinking  gaze  the  ranchman  beat 
down  his  lies,  while  fear  dripped  in  perspiration 
from  the  pallid  face  of  the  prisoner. 

Bucky  had  let  Cullison  take  the  center  of  the 
stage.  He  had  observed  a  growing  distress  mount 
and  ride  the  victim.  Now  he  stepped  in  to  save 
the  man  with  an  alternative  at  which  Blackwell 
might  be  expected  not  to  snatch  eagerly  perhaps, 
but  at  least  to  be  driven  toward. 

"This  man  is  my  prisoner,  Mr.  Cullison.  From 
what  I  can  make  out  you  ought  to  strip  his  hide 
off  and  hang  it  up  to  dry.  But  I've  got  first  call  on 
him.  If  he  comes  through  with  the  truth  about  the 
W.  &  S.  Express  robbery,  I've  got  to  protect  him." 

Luck  understood  the  ranger.  They  were  both 
working  toward  the  same  end.  The  immediate 
punishment  of  this  criminal  was  not  the  important 
issue.  It  was  merely  a  club  with  which  to  beat  him 
into  submission,  and  at  that  a  moral  rather  than  a 

275 


CROOKED    TRAILS   'AND   STRAIGHT 

physical  one.  But  the  owner  of  the  Circle  C  knew 
better  than  to  yield  to  Bucky  too  easily.  He 
fought  the  point  out  with  him  at  length,  and  finally 
yielded  reluctantly,  in  such  a  way  as  to  aggravate 
rather  than  relieve  the  anxiety  of  the  convict. 

"All  right.  You  take  him  first,"  he  finally  con* 
ceded  harshly. 

Bucky  kept  up  the  comedy.  "I'll  take  him,  Mr. 
Cullison.  But  if  he  tells  me  the  truth — and  if  I 
find  out  it's  the  whole  truth — there'll  be  nothing 
doing  on  your  part.  He's  my  prisoner.  Under 
stand  that." 

Metaphorically,  Blackwell  licked  the  hand  of  1iis 
protector.  He  was  still  standing,  but  his  attitude 
gave  the  effect  of  crouching. 

"I  aim  to  do  what's  right,  Captain  O'Connor. 
Whatever's  right.  You  ask  me  any  questions." 

"I  want  to  know  all  about  the  W.  &  S.  robbery, 
everything,  from  start  to  finish." 

"Honest,  I  wish  I  could  tell  you.  But  I  don't 
know  a  thing  about  it.  Cross  my  heart,  I  don't." 

"No  use,  Blackwell.  If  I'm  going  to  stand  by 
you  against  Mr.  Cullison,  you'll  have  to  tell  the 
truth.  Why,  man,  I've  even  got  the  mask  you 
wore  and  the  cloth  you  cut  it  from." 

"I  reckon  it  must  a-been  some  one  else,  Major. 
Wisht  I  could  help  you,  but  I  can't." 

Buckv  rose.    "All  right.    If  you  can't  help  me,  I 
276 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

can't  help  you."  Apparently  he  dismissed  the  mat 
ter  from  his  mind,  for  he  looked  at  his  watch  and 
turned  to  the  cattleman.  "Mr.  Cullison,  I  reckon 
I'll  run  out  and  have  some  supper.  Do  you  mind 
staying  here  with  this  man  till  I  get  back?" 

"No.  That's  all  right,  Bucky.  Don't  hurry. 
I'll  keep  him  entertained."  Perhaps  it  was  not  by 
chance  that  his  eye  wandered  to  a  blacksnake  whip 
hanging  on  the  wall. 

O'Connor  sauntered  to  the  door.  The  fright 
ened  gaze  of  the  prisoner  clung  to  him  as  if  for 
safety. 

"Major — Colonel — you  ain't  a-going,"  he 
pleaded. 

"Only  for  an  hour  or  two.  I'll  be  back.  I 
wouldn't  think  of  saying  good-by — not  till  we 
reach  Yuma." 

With  that  the  door  closed  behind  him.  Black- 
well  cried  out,  hurriedly,  eagerly.  "Mister  O'Con 
nor!" 

Bucky's  head  reappeared.  "What!  Have  you 
reduced  me  to  the  ranks  already?  I  was  looktng 
to  be  a  general  by  the  time  I  got  back,"  he  com 
plained  whimsically. 

"I — I'll  tell  you  everything — every  last  thing: 
Mr.  Cullison — he's  aiming  to  kill  me  soon  as  you've 
gone." 

'I've  got  no  time  to  fool  away,  BlackweH.  I'm 
277 


CROOKED    TRAILS   ~AND    STRAIGHT 

hungry.  If  you  mean  business  get  to  it.  But  re 
member  that  whatever  you  say  will  be  used  against 
you." 

"I'll  tell  you  any  dog-goned  thing  you  want  to 
know.  You've  got  me  beat.  I'm  plumb  wore  out — 
sick.  A  man  can't  stand  everything." 

O'Connor  came  in  and  closed  the  door.  "Let's 
have  it,  then — the  whole  story.  I  want  it  all :  how 
you  came  to  know  about  this  shipment  of  money, 
how  you  pulled  it  off,  what  you  have  done  with  it, 
all  the  facts  from  beginning  to  the  end." 

"Lemme  sit  down,  Captain.  I'm  awful  done  up. 
I  reckon  while  I  was  in  the  hills  I've  been  under 
fed." 

"Sit  down.  There's  a  good  dinner  waiting  for 
you  at  Clune's  when  you  get  through." 

Even  then,  though  he  must  have  known  that 
lies  could  not  avail,  the  man  sprinkled  his  story 
with  them.  The  residuum  of  truth  that  remained 
after  these  had  been  sifted  out  was  something  like 
this. 

He  had  found  on  the  street  a  letter  that  had  in 
advertently  been  dropped.  It  was  to  Jordan  of 
the  Cattlemen's  National  Bank,  and  it  notified  him 
that  $20,000  was  to  be  shipped  to  him  by  the  W. 
&  S.  Express  Company  on  the  night  of  the  rob 
bery.  Blackwell  resolved  to  have  a  try  for  it.  He 
hung  around  the  office  until  the  manager  and  the 

278 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

guard  arrived  from  the  train,  made  his  raid  upon 
them,  locked  the  door,  and  threw  away  his  mask. 
He  dived  with  the  satchel  into  the  nearest  alley, 
and  came  face  to  face  with  the  stranger  whom  he 
later  learned  to  be  Fendrick.  The  whole  story 
of  the  horse  had  been  a  myth  later  invented  by  the 
sheepman  to  scatter  the  pursuit  by  making  it  ap 
pear  that  the  robber  had  come  from  a  distance.  As 
the  street  had  been  quite  deserted  at  the  time  this 
detail  could  be  plausibly  introduced  with  no  chance 
of  a  denial. 

Fendrick,  who  had  heard  the  shouting  of  the 
men  locked  in  the  express  office,  stopped  the  rob 
ber,  but  Blackwell  broke  away  and  ran  down  the 
alley.  The  sheepman  followed  and  caught  him. 
After  another  scuffle  the  convict  again  hammered 
himself  free,  but  left  behind  the  hand  satchel  con 
taining  the  spoils.  Fendrick  (so  he  later  ex 
plained  to  Blackwell)  tied  a  cord  to  the  handle  of 
the  bag  and  dropped  it  down  the  chute  of  a  laundry 
in  such  a  way  that  it  could  later  be  drawn  up.  Then 
he  hurried  back  to  the  express  office  and  released 
the  prisoners.  After  the  excitement  had  subsided, 
he  had  returned  for  the  money  and  hid  it.  The 
original  robber  did  not  know  where. 

Blackwell's  second  meeting  with  the  sheepman 
had  been  almost  as  startling  as  the  first.  Cass  had 
run  into  the  Jack  of  Hearts  in  time  to  save  the  life 

279 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

of  his  enemy.  The  two  men  recognized  each  other 
and  entered  into  a  compact  to  abduct  Cullison,  for 
his  share  in  which  the  older  man  was  paid  one  thou 
sand  dollars.  The  Mexican  Dominguez  had  later 
appeared  on  the  scene,  had  helped  guard  the  owner 
of  the  Circle  C,  and  had  assisted  in  taking  him  to 
the  hut  in  the  Rincons  where  he  had  been  secreted. 

Both  men  asked  the  same  question  as  soon  as  he 
had  finished. 

"Where  is  the  money  you  got  from  the  raid  on 
the  W.  &  S.  office?" 

"Don't  know.  I've  been  at  Fendrick  ever  since 
to  tell  me.  He's  got  it  salted  somewhere.  You're 
fixing  to  put  me  behind  the  bars,  and  he's  the  man 
that  really  stole  it." 

From  this  they  could  not  shake  him.  He  stuck 
to  it  vindictively,  for  plainly  his  malice  against  the 
sheepman  was  great.  The  latter  had  spoiled  his 
coup,  robbed  him  of  its  fruits,  and  now  was  letting 
him  go  to  prison. 

"I  reckon  we'd  better  have  a  talk  with  Cass," 
Bucky  suggested  in  a  low  voice  to  the  former 
sheriff. 

Luck  laughed  significantly.  "When  we  find 
him." 

For  the  sheepman  had  got  out  on  bail  the  morn 
ing  after  his  arrest. 

"We'll  find  him  easily  enough.  And  I  rather 
280 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

»^*"  ~" "" 
'think  he'll  have  a  good  explanation,  even  if  this 
fellow's  story  is  true." 

"Oh,  he'll  be  loaded  with  explanations.  I  don't 
doubt  that  for  a  minute.  But  it  will  take  a  hell  of 
a  lot  of  talk  to  get  away  from  the  facts.  I've  got 
him  where  I  want  him  now,  and  by  God!  I'll  make 
him  squeal  before  the  finish." 

"Oh,  well,  you're  prejudiced,"  Bucky  told  him 
with  an  amiable  smile. 

"Course  I  am;  prejudiced  as  old  Wall-eyed 
Rogers  was  against  the  vigilantes  for  hanging  him 
on  account  of  horse  stealing.  But  I'll  back  my 
prejudices  all  the  same.  We'll  see  I'm  right, 
Bucky." 


CHAPTER  XV 
BOB   TAKES   A   HAND 

Fendrick,  riding  on  Mesa  Verde,  met  Bob  Cul- 
lison,  and  before  he  knew  what  had  happened  found 
a  gun  thrown  on  him. 

"Don't  you  move,"  the  boy  warned. 

"What  does  this  tommyrot  mean?"  the  sheep 
man  demanded  angrily. 

"It  means  that  you  are  coming  back  with  me  to 
the  ranch.  That's  what  it  means." 

"What  for?" 

"Never  you  mind  what  for." 

"Oh,  go  to  Mexico,"  Cass  flung  back  impatiently. 
"Think  we're  in  some  fool  moving-picture  play, 
you  blamed  young  idiot.  Put  up  that  gun." 

Shrilly  Bob  retorted.  He  was  excited  enough 
to  be  dangerous.  "Don't  you  get  the  wrong  idea. 
I'm  going  to  make  this  stick.  You'll  turn  and  go 
back  with  me  to  the  Circle  C." 

"And  you'll  travel  to  Yuma  first  thing  you 
know,  you  young  Jesse  James.  What  you  need  is  a 
pair  of  leather  chaps  applied  to  your  hide," 

"You'll  go  home  with  me,  just  the  same." 

"You've  got  one  more  guess  coming,  kid.  I'll 
not  go  without  knowing  why." 

282 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

"You're  wanted  for  the  W.  &  S.  Express  rob 
bery.  Blackwell  has  confessed." 

"Confessed  that  I  did  it?"  Fendrick  inquired 
scornfully. 

*Says  you  were  in  it  with  him.  I  ain't  a-going 
to  discuss  it  with  you.  Swing  that  horse  round, 
and  don't  make  any  breaks,  or  there'll  be  mourning 
at  the  C.  F.  ranch." 

Cass  sat  immovable  as  the  sphinx.  He  was  think 
ing  that  he  might  as  well  face  the  charge  now  as 
any  time.  Moreover,  he  had  reasons  for  wanting  to 
visit  the  Circle  C.  They  had  to  do  with  a  tall,  slim 
girl  who  never  looked  at  him  without  scorn  in  her 
dark,  flashing  eyes. 

"All  right.  I'll  go  back  with  you,  but  not  under 
a  gun." 

"You'll  go  the  way  I  say." 

"Don't  think  it.  I've  said  I'll  go.  That  settles 
it.  But  I  won't  stand  for  any  gun-play  capture." 

"You'll  have  to  stand  for  it." 

Fendrick's  face  set.  "Will  I?  It's  up  to  you, 
then.  Let's  see  you  make  me." 

Sitting  there  with  his  gaze  steadily  on  the  boy, 
Cass  had  Bob  at  a  disadvantage.  If  the  sheep 
owner  had  tried  to  break  away  into  the  chaparral, 
Bob  could  have  blazed  away  at  him,  but  he  could 
not  shoot  a  man  looking  at  him  with  cynical, 
amused  eyes.  He  could  understand  the  point  of 

283 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

view  of  his  adversary.  If  Fendrick  rode  into  the 
Circle  C  under  compulsion  of  a  gun  in  the  hands  of 
a  boy  he  would  never  hear  the  end  of  the  laugh  on 
him. 

"You  won't  try  to  light  out,  will  you?" 

"I've  got  no  notion  of  lighting  out." 

Bob  put  up  his  big  blue  gun  reluctantly.  Never 
before  had  it  been  trained  on  a  human  being,  and 
it  was  a  wrench  to  give  up  the  thought  of  bringing 
in  the  enemy  as  a  prisoner.  But  he  saw  he  could 
not  pull  it  off.  Fendrick  had  declined  to  scare,  had 
practically  laughed  him  out  of  it.  The  boy  had  not 
meant  his  command  as  a  bluff,  but  Cass  knew  him 
better  than  he  did  himself. 

They  turned  toward  the  Circle  C. 

"Must  have  been  taking  lessons  on  how  to  bend  a 
gun.  You  in  training  for  sheriff,  or  are  you  going 
to  take  Bucky's  place  with  the  rangers?"  Fendrick 
asked  with  casual  impudence,  malicious  amusement 
gleaming  from  his  lazy  eyes. 

Bob,  very  red  about  the  ears,  took  refuge  in  a 
sulky  silence.  He  was  being  guyed,  and  not  by 
an  inch  did  he  propose  to  compromise  the  Cullison 
•dignity. 

"From  the  way  you  go  at  it,  I  figure  you  an  old 
hand  at  the  hold-up  game.  Wonder  if  you  didn't 
pull  off  the  W.  &  S.  raid  yourself." 

284 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

Bob  writhed  impotently.  At  this  sort  of  thing 
he  was  no  match  for  the  other.  Fendrick,  now  in 
the  best  of  humors,  planted  lazily  his  offhand  barbs. 

Kate  was  seated  on  the  porch  sewing.  She  rose 
in  surprise  when  her  cousin  and  the  sheepman  ap 
peared.  They  came  with  jingling  spurs  across  the 
plaza  toward  her.  Bob  was  red  as  a  turkeycock, 
but  Fendrick  wore  his  most  devil-may-care  in 
souciance. 

"Where's  Uncle  Luck,  sis  ?  I've  brought  this  fel 
low  back  with  me.  Caught  him  on  the  mesa,"  ex 
plained  the  boy  sulkily. 

Fendrick  bowed  rather  extravagantly  and  flashed 
at  the  girl  a  smiling  double-row  of  strong  white 
teeth.  "He's  qualifying  for  a  moving-picture  show 
actor,  Miss  Cullison.  I  hadn't  the  heart  to  disap 
point  him  when  he  got  that  cannon  trained  on  me. 
So  here  I  am." 

Kate  looked  at  him  and  then  let  her  gaze  travel 
to  her  cousin.  She  somehow  gave  the  effect  of 
judging  him  of  negligible  value. 

"I  think  he's  in  his  office,  Bob.     I'll  go  see." 

She  went  swiftly,  and  presently  her  father  came 
But.  Kate  did  not  return. 

Luck  looked  straight  at  Cass  with  the  uncompro 
mising  hostility  so  characteristic  of  him.  Neither 
of  the  men  spoke.  It  was  Bob  who  made  the  nee- 

285 


CROOKED    TRAILS   'AND    STRAIGHT 

essary  explanations.  The  sheepman  heard  them 
with  a  polite  derision  that  suggested  an  impersonal 
amusement  at  the  situation. 

"I've  been  looking  for  you/'  Luck  said  bluntly, 
after  his  nephew  had  finished. 

"So  I  gathered  from  young  Jesse  James.  He  in 
timated  it  over  the  long  blue  barrel  of  his  cannon. 
Anything  particular,  or  just  a  pleasant  social  call  ?" 

"You're  in  bad  on  this  W.  &  S.  robbery.  I  reck 
oned  you  would  be  safer  in  jail  till  it's  cleared  up." 

"You  still  sheriff,  Mr.  Cullison?  Somehow  I 
had  got  a  notion  you  had  quit  the  job." 

"I'm  an  interested  party.  There's  new  evidence, 
not  manufactured,  either." 

"Well,  well!" 

"We'll  take  the  stage  into  town  and  see  what 
O'Connor  says — that  is,  if  you've  got  time  to  go." 
Luck  could  be  as  formal  in  his  sarcasm  as  his  neigh 
bor. 

"With  such  good  company  on  the  way  I'll  have 
to  make  time." 

The  stage  did  not  usually  leave  till  about  half 
past  one.  Presently  Kate  announced  dinner.  A 
little  awkwardly  Luck  invited  the  sheepman  to  join) 
them.  Fendrick  declined.  He  was  a  Fletcherite^ 
he  informed  Cullison  ironically,  and  was  in  the 
habit  of  missing  meals  occasionally.  This  would 
be  one  of  the  times. 

286 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

His  host  hung  in  the  doorway.  Seldom  at  a  loss 
to  express  himself,  he  did  not  quite  know  how  to 
put  into  words  what  he  was  thinking.  His  enemy 
understood. 

"That's  all  right.  You've  satisfied  the  demands 
of  hospitality.  Go  eat  your  dinner.  I'll  be  right 
here  on  the  porch  when  you  get  through." 

Kate,  who  was  standing  beside  her  father,  spoke 
quietly. 

"There's  a  place  for  you,  Mr.  Fendrick.  We 
should  be  very  pleased  to  have  you  join  us.  Peo 
ple  who  happen  to  be  at  the  Circle  C  at  dinner  time 
are  expected  to  eat  here." 

"Come  and  eat,  man.  You'll  be  under  no  obli 
gations.  I  reckon  you  can  hate  us,  just  as  thor 
ough  after  a  square  meal  as  before.  Besides,  I  wras 
your  guest  for  several  days." 

Fendrick  looked  at  the  young  mistress  of  the 
ranch.  He  meant  to  decline  once  more,  but  unac 
countably  found  himself  accepting  instead.  Some 
thing  in  her  face  told  him  she  would  rather  have 
it  so. 

Wherefore  Cass  found  himself  with  his  feet  un 
der  the  table  of  his  foe  discussing  various  topics 
that  had  nothing  to  do  with  sheep,  homestead 
claims,  abductions,  or  express  robberies.  He  looked 
at  Kate  but  rarely,  yet  he  was  aware  of  her  all 
the  time.  At  his  ranch  a  Mexican  did  the  cooking 

287 


w  CROOKED    TRAILS   AND   STRAIGHT 

in  haphazard  fashion.  The  food  was  ill  prepared 
and  worse  served.  He  ate  only  because  it  was  a 
necessity,  and  he  made  as  short  a  business  of  it 
as  he  could.  Here  were  cut  roses  on  a  snowy  table 
cloth,  an  air  of  leisure  that  implied  the  object  of 
dinner  to  be  something  more  than  to  devour  a  given 
quantity  of  food.  Moreover,  the  food  had  a  flavor 
that  made  it  palatable.  The  rib  roast  was  done  to 
a  turn,  the  mashed  potatoes  whipped  to  a  flaky 
lightness.  The  vegetable  salad  was  a  triumph,  and 
the  rice  custard  melted  in  his  mouth. 

Presently  a  young  man  came  into  the  dining 
room  and  sat  down  beside  Kate.  He  looked  the 
least  in  the  world  surprised  at  sight  of  the  sheep 
man. 

"Mornin',  Cass,"  he  nodded. 

"Morning,  Curly,"  answered  Fendrick.  "Didn't 
know  you  were  riding  for  the  Circle  C." 

"He's  my  foreman,"  Luck  explained. 

Cass  observed  that  he  was  quite  one  of  the  fam 
ily.  Bob  admired  him  openly  and  without  shame, 
because  he  was  the  best  rider  in  Arizona;  Kate 
seemed  to  be  on  the  best  of  terms  with  him,  and 
Luck  treated  him  with  the  offhand  bluffness  he 
might  have  used  toward  a  grown  son. 

If  Cass  had,  in  his  bitter,  sardonic  fashion,  been 
interested  in  Kate  before  he  sat  down,  the  feeling 
had  quickened  to  something  different  before  he 

288 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

rose.  It  was  not  only  that  she  was  competent  to 
devise  such  a  meal  in  the  desert.  There  was  some 
thing  else.  She  had  made  a  home  for  her  father 
and  cousin  at  the  Circle  C.  The  place  radiated 
love,  domesticity,  kindly  good  fellowship.  The 
casual  give  and  take  of  the  friendly  talk  went 
straight  to  the  heart  of  the  sheepman.  This  was 
living.  It  came  to  him  poignantly  that  in  his  scram 
ble  for  wealth  he  had  missed  that  which  was  of 
far  greater  importance. 

The  stage  brought  the  two  men  to  town  shortly 
after  sundown.  Luck  called  up  O'Connor,  and 
made  an  appointment  to  meet  him  after  supper. 

"Back  again,  Bucky,"  Fendrick  grinned  at  sight 
of  the  ranger.  "I  hear  I'm  suspected  of  being  a  bad 
hold-up." 

"There's  a  matter  that  needs  explaining,  Cass. 
According  to  Blackwell's  story,  you  caught  him 
with  the  goods  at  the  time  of  the  robbery,  and  in 
making  his  get-away  he  left  the  loot  with  you. 
What  have  you  done  with  it  ?" 

"Blackwell  told  you  that,  did  he?" 

"Yes." 

"Don't  doubt  your  word  for  a  moment,  Bucky, 
but  before  I  do  any  talking  I'd  like  to  hear  him 
say  so.  I'll  not  round  on  him  until  I  know  he's 
given  himself  away." 

The  convict  was  sent  for.  He  substantiated  the 
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CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

ranger  reluctantly.  He  was  so  hemmed  in  that  he 
did  not  know  how  to  play  his  cards  so  as  to  make 
the  most  of  them.  He  hated  Fendrick.  But  much 
as  he  desired  to  convict  him,  he  could  not  escape 
an  uneasy  feeling  that  he  was  going  to  be  made  the 
victim.  For  Cass  took  it  with  that  sarcastic  smile 
of  his  that  mocked  them  all  in  turn.  The  convict 
trusted  none  of  them.  Already  he  felt  the  peniten 
tiary  walls  closing  on  him.  He  was  like  a  trapped 
coyote,  ready  to  snarl  and  bite  at  the  first  hand  he 
could  reach.  Just  now  this  happened  to  belong  to 
Fendrick,  who  had  cheated  him  out  of  the  money  he 
had  stolen  and  had  brought  this  upon  him. 

Cass  heard  him  out  with  a  lifted  upper  lip  and 
his  most  somnolent  tiger-cat  expression.  After 
Blackwell  had  finished  and  been  withdrawn  from 
circulation  he  rolled  and  lit  a  cigarette. 

"By  Mr.  Blackwell's  say-so  I'm  the  goat.  By  the 
way,  has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  gentlemen  that 
one  can  't  be  convicted  on  the  testimony  of  a  single 
accomplice?"  He  asked  it  casually,  his  chair  tipped 
back,  smoke  wreaths  drifting  lazily  ceilingward. 

"We've  got  a  little  circumstantial  evidence  tf 
add,  Cass."  Bucky  suggested  pleasantly. 

"Not  enough — not  nearly  enough." 

"That  will  be  for  a  jury  to  decide,"  Cullison 
chipped  in. 

Fendrick  shrugged.  "I've  a  notion  to  let  it  go  to 
290 


CROOKED    TRAILS   'AND   STRAIGHT 

that.  But  what's  the  use?  Understand  this,  I 
wasn't  going  to  give  Blackwell  away,  but  since  he 
has  talked,  I  may  tell  what  I  know.  It's  true 
enough  what  he  says.  I  did  relieve  him  of  the 
plunder." 

"Sorry  to  hear  that,  Cass,"  Bucky  commented 
gravely.  "What  did  you  do  with  it?" 

The  sheep  owner  flicked  his  cigarette  ash  into  the 
tray,  and  looked  at  the  lieutenant  out  of  half-shut 
tered,  indolent  eyes.  "Gave  it  to  you,  Bucky." 

O'Connor  sat  up.  His  blue  Irish  eyes  were  danc 
ing.  "You're  a  cool  customer,  Cass." 

"Fact,  just  the  same.  Got  that  letter  I  handed 
you  the  other  day?" 

The  officer  produced  it  from  his  safe. 

"Open  it." 

With  a  paper  knife  Bucky  ripped  the  flap  and 
took  out  a  sheet  of  paper. 

"There's  something  else  in  there,"  Fendrick  sug 
gested. 

The  something  else  proved  to  be  a  piece  of  paper 
folded  tightly,  which  being  opened  disclosed  a  key. 

O'Connor  read  aloud  the  letter: 

To  NICHOLAS  BOLT,  SHERIFF,  OR  BUCKY 

O'CONNOR,  LIEUTENANT  OF  RANGERS: 

Having  come  into  possession  of  a  little 

valise  which  is  not  mine,  I  am  getting  rid 

of  it  in  the  following  manner.     I  have 

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CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

rented  a  large  safety-deposit  box  at  the 
Cattlemen's  National  Bank,  and  have  put 
into  it  the  valise  with  the  lock  still  un 
broken.  The  key  is  inclosed  herewith. 
Shaw,  the  cashier,  will  tell  you  that  when 
this  box  was  rented  I  gave  explicit  orders 
it  should  be  opened  only  by  the  men 
whose  names  are  given  in  an  envelope  left 
with  him,  not  even  excepting  myself. 
The  valise  was  deposited  at  exactly  10:30 
A.  M.  the  morning  after  the  robbery,  as 
Mr.  Shaw  will  also  testify.  I  am  writing 
this  the  evening  of  the  same  day. 

CASS  FENDRICK. 


"Don't  believe  a  word  of  it,"  Cullison  exploded. 

"Seeing  is  believing,"  the  sheepman  murmured. 
He  was  enjoying  greatly  the  discomfiture  of  his 
foe. 

"Makes  a  likely  fairy  tale.  What  for  would  you 
keep  the  money  and  not  turn  it  back?'" 

"That's  an  easy  one,  Luck.  He  wanted  to  throw 
the  burden  of  the  robbery  on  you,"  Bucky  ex-r 
plained. 

"Well,  I've  got  to  be  shown."  v 

In  the  morning  he  was  shown.  Shaw  confirmed 
exactly  what  Fendrick  had  said.  He  produced  a 
sealed  envelope.  Within  this  was  a  sheet  of  pa 
per,  upon  which  were  written  two  lines. 

292 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

Box  2143  is  to  be  opened  only  by  Sher 
iff  Bolt  or  Lieutenant  Bucky  O'Connor  of 
the  Rangers,  and  before  witnesses. 

CASS  FENDRICK. 

From  the  safety-deposit  vault  Bucky  drew  a 
large  package  wrapped  in  yellow  paper.  He  cut  the 
string,  tore  away  the  covering,  and  disclosed  a 
leather  satchel.  Perry  Hawley,  the  local  manager 
of  the  Western  &  Southern  Express  Company,  fit 
ted  to  this  a  key  and  took  out  a  sealed  bundle.  This 
he  ripped  open  before  them  all.  Inside  was  found 
the  sum  of  twenty  thousand  dollars  in  crisp  new 
bills. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
A  CLEAN  UP 

A  slight  accident  occurred  at  the  jail,  one  so 
unimportant  that  Scanlan  the  jailer  did  not  think 
it  worth  reporting  to  his  chief.  Blackwell,  while 
eating,  knocked  a  glass  from  the  table  and  broke 
it  on  the  cement  floor  of  his  cell.  There  is  a  legend 
to  the  effect  that  for  want  of  a  nail  a  battle  was 
lost.  By  reason  of  a  bit  of  glass  secreted  in  his 
bed  something  quite  as  important  happened  to  the 
convict 

From  the  little  table  in  his  room  he  pried  loose 
one  of  the  corner  braces.  At  night  he  scraped  away 
at  this  with  his  bit  of  glass  until  the  wood  began  to 
take  the  shape  of  a  revolver.  This  he  carefully 
blacked  with  the  ink  brought  him  by  his  guard.  To 
the  end  of  his  weapon  he  fitted  an  iron  washer  taken 
from  the  bedstead.  Then  he  waited  for  his  op 
portunity. 

His  chance  came  through  the  good  nature  of 
Scanlan.  The  jailer  was  in  the  habit  of  going 
down  town  to  loaf  for  an  hour  or  two  with  old 
cronies  after  he  had  locked  up  for  the  night.  Black- 
well  pretended  to  be  out  of  chewing  tobacco  and 
asked  the  guard  to  buy  him  some.  About  ten 

294 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

o'clock  Scanlan  returned  and  brought  the  tobacco 
to  his  prisoner.  The  moon  was  shining  brightly, 
and  he  did  not  bring  a  lantern  with  him.  As  he 
passed  the  plug  through  the  grating  Blackwell's 
fingers  closed  around  his  wrist  and  drew  the  man 
close  to  the  iron  lattice  work.  Simultaneously  a 
cold  rim  was  pressed  against  the  temple  of  the 
guard. 

"Don't  move,  or  I'll  fill  you  full  of  holes,"  the 
convict  warned. 

Scanlan  did  not  move,  not  until  the  man  in  the 
cell  gave  the  word.  Then  he  obeyed  orders  to  the 
letter.  His  right  hand  found  the  bunch  of  keys, 
fitted  the  correct  one  to  the  door,  and  unlocked  it 
according  to  instructions.  Not  until  he  was  relieved 
of  his  weapon  did  Blackwell  release  him.  The 
jailer  was  backed  into  the  cell,  gagged  with  a  piece 
of  torn  bedding,  and  left  locked  up  as  securely  as 
the  other  had  been  a  few  minutes  earlier. 

The  convict  made  his  way  downstairs,  opened  the 
outer  door  with  the  bunch  of  keys  he  had  taken  from 
Scanlan,  locked  it  behind  him,  and  slipped  into  the 
first  alley  that  offered  refuge.  By  way  of  the 
Mexican  quarters  he  reached  the  suburbs  and  open 
country.  Two  hours  later  he  stole  a  horse  from 
an  irrigated  ranch  near  town.  Within  twenty-four 
hours  he  had  reached  the  Soapy  Stone  horse  ranch 
and  safety. 

295 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

After  this  the  plans  for  the  raid  on  the  Texas, 
Arizona  &  Pacific  Flyer  moved  swiftly  to  a  head. 
Soapy  Stone  and  Sam  dropped  into  Saguache  in 
conspicuously  one  evening.  Next  day  Stone  rode 
down  to  Tin  Cup  to  look  over  the  ground.  Maloney 
telephoned  their  movements  to  the  Circle  C  and 
to  the  Hashknife.  This  brought  to  Saguache  Luck 
Cullison,  Curly  Flandrau,  and  Slats  Davis.  Bucky 
O'Connor  had  been  called  to  Douglas  on  important 
business  and  could  not  lend  his  help. 

Curly  met  Sam  in  front  of  Chalkeye's  Place. 
They  did  the  town  together  in  a  mild  fashion  and 
Flandrau  proposed  that  they  save  money  by  taking 
a  common  room.  To  this  young  Cullison  agreed. 

Luck,  Curly  and  Dick  Maloney  had  already  ridden 
over  the  country  surrounding  the  scene  of  the  pro 
jected  hold-up.  They  had  decided  that  the  robbery 
would  probably  take  place  at  the  depot,  so  that  the 
outlaws  could  get  the  agent  to  stop  the  Flyer  with 
out  arousing  suspicion.  In  a  pocket  of  the  hills 
back  of  the  station  a  camp  had  been  selected,  its 
site  well  back  from  any  trail  and  so  situated  that 
from  it  one  could  command  a  view  of  Tin  Cup. 

The  owner  of  the  Circle  C  selected  three  of  his 
closemouthed  riders — Sweeney,  Jake  and  Buck  were 
the  ones  he  chose — to  hold  the  camp  with  him  until 
after  the  robbery.  The  only  signal  they  needed  was 
the  stopping  of  the  Flyer  at  Tin  Cup.  Then  they 

296 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

would  come  pounding  down  from  the  hills  in  time 
to  catch  the  robbers  before  they  had  got  through 
with  their  work.  Maloney  or  Curly  would  be  on 
the  train  to  take  a  hand  in  the  battle.  Caught  by 
surprise,  Soapy's  gang  would  surely  be  trapped. 

So  they  planned  it,  but  it  happened  that  Soapy 
Stone  had  made  his  arrangements  differently. 

Luck  and  his  riders  took  their  blankets  and  their 
traps  down  to  Tin  Cup  according  to  agreement, 
while  Davis,  Maloney  and  Flandrau  looked  after 
the  Saguache  end  of  the  business.  All  of  them 
were  very  friendly  with  Sam.  The  boy,  younger 
than  any  of  them,  was  flattered  that  three  of  the 
best  known  riders  in  the  territory  should  make  so 
much  of  him.  Moreover,  Stone  had  given  him 
instructions  to  mix  with  Curly's  crowd  as  much  as 
he  could.  He  had  given  as  a  reason  that  it  would 
divert  suspicion,  but  what  he  really  wanted  was 
to  throw  the  blame  of  the  hold-up  on  these  friends 
after  Sam  was  found  dead  on  the  scene. 

Young  Cullison  had  stopped  drinking,  but  he 
could  not  keep  his  nerves  from  jumping.  His  com 
panions  pretended  not  to  notice  how  worried  he 
was,  but  they  watched  him  so  closely  that  he  was 
never  out  of  the  sight  of  at  least  one  of  them. 
Soapy  had  decreed  the  boy's  death  by  treachery, 
but  his  friends  were  determined  to  save  him  and  to 
end  forever  the  reign  of  Stone  as  a  bad  man. 

297 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

It  was  one  day  when  the  four  young  cowpunchers 
were  sitting  together  in  Curly's  room  playing  poker 
that  a  special  delivery  letter  came  to  Sam.  The 
!others,  to  cover  their  excitement,  started  an  argu 
ment  as  to  whether  five  aces  (they  were  playing 
with  the  joker)  beat  a  straight  flush.  Presently 
Sam  spoke,  as  indifferently  as  he  could. 

"Got  the  offer  of  a  job  down  the  line.  Think 
I'll  run  down  to-night  far  as  Casa  Grande  and  see 
what's  doing." 

"If  they  need  any  extra  riders  here's  some  more 
out  of  a  job/'  Dick  told  him. 

"Heard  to-day  of  a  freighter  that  wants  a  mule- 
skinner.  I'm  going  to  see  him  to-morrow,"  Slats 
chipped  in. 

"Darn  this  looking  for  a  job  anyhow.  It's  tur'ble 
slow  work,"  Curly  followed  up,  yawning.  "Well, 
here's  hoping  you  land  yours,  Sam." 

This  was  about  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  The 
game  dragged  on  for  a  while,  but  nobody  took  any 
interest  in  it.  Sam  had  to  get  ready  for  the  work 
of  the  night,  and  the  rest  were  anxious  to  get  out 
and  give  him  a  chance.  So  presently  Dick  threw 
down  his  cards. 

"I've  had  enough  poker  for  one  session.  Me, 
I'm  going  to  drift  out  and  see  what's  moving  in 
town." 

298 


CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT 

"Think  I'll  snooze  for  a  while/'  Sam  said,  stretch 
ing  sleepily. 

The  others  trooped  out  and  left  him  alone.  From 
the  room  rented  by  Davis  the  three  watched  to  see 
that  Sam  did  not  leave  without  being  observed.  He 
did  not  appear,  and  about  six  o'clock  Curly  went 
back  to  his  room. 

"Time  to  grub,"  he  sang  out. 

"That's  right,"  Sam  agreed. 

They  went  to  the  New  Orleans  Hash  House, 
and  presently  Davis  and  Maloney  also  arrived.  The 
party  ordered  a  good  dinner  and  took  plenty  of 
time  to  eat  it  Sam  was  obviously  nervous,  but 
eager  to  cover  his  uneasiness  under  a  show  of  good 
spirits. 

Curly  finished  eating  just  as  Sam's  second  cup 
of  coffee  came.  Flandrau,  who  had  purposely 
chosen  a  seat  in  the  corner  where  he  was  hemmed 
in  by  the  chairs  of  the  others,  began  to  feel  in  his 
vest  pockets. 

"Darned  if  I've  got  a  cigar.  Sam,  you're  young 
and  nimble.  Go  buy  me  one  at  the  counter." 

"Sure."     Cullison  was  away  on  the  instant. 

Curly's  hand  came  out  of  his  pocket.  In  it  was 
a  paper.  Quickly  he  shook  the  contents  of  the 
paper  into  the  steaming  cup  of  coffee  and  stirred 
the  liquid  with  a  spoon. 

299 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

Sam  brought  back  the  cigar  and  drank  his  coffee. 
Without  any  unnecessary  delay  they  returned  to 
his  room.  Before  the  party  had  climbed  the  stairs 
the  boy  was  getting  drowsy. 

"Dunno  what's  the  matter  with  me.  I'm  feeling 
awful  sleepy,"  he  said,  sitting  on  the  bed. 

"Why  don't  you  take  a  snooze?  You've  got  lots 
of  time  before  the  train  goes." 

"No,  I  don't  reckon  I  better." 

He  rubbed  his  eyes,  yawned,  and  slumped  down. 
His  lids  wavered,  shut,  jerked  open  again,  and 
closed  slowly. 

"Wake  me,  Curly — time  for  train."  And  with 
that  he  was  sound  asleep. 

They  took  off  his  boots  and  settled  him  com 
fortably.  In  his  pocket  they  found  a  black  mask 
big  enough  to  cover  his  whole  face.  The  registered 
letter  could  not  be  found  and  they  decided  he  must 
have  destroyed  it. 

The  sight  of  the  mask  had  given  Curly  an  idea. 
He  was  of  about  the  same  build  as  Sam.  Why 
not  go  in  his  place?  It  would  be  worth  doing  just 
to  catch  sight  of  Soapy's  face  when  he  took  the 
mask  off  after  the  robbers  had  been  captured. 

"What's  the  use?"  Davis  protested.  "It's  an  un 
necessary  risk.  They  might  shoot  you  in  place  of 
Sam." 

'Til  look  out  for  myself.     Don't  worry  about 
300 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

that    Before  the  time  for  getting  rid  of  Sam  comes 
Mr.  Soapy  and  his  bunch  will  be  prisoners/' 

They  argued  it  out,  but  Curly  was  set  and  could 
not  be  moved.  He  dressed  in  young  Cullison's 
clothes  and  with  Maloney  took  the  express  at  9 157. 
Davis  remained  to  guard  Sam. 

Curly 's  watch  showed  10:17  when  the  wheels 
began  to  grind  from  the  setting  of  the  air  brakes. 
He  was  in  the  last  sleeper,  Dick  in  the  day  coach 
near  the  front  They  had  agreed  that  Dick  was 
to  drop  off  as  soon  as  the  train  slowed  down  enough 
to  make  it  safe,  whereas  Curly  would  go  on  and 
play  Sam's  part  until  the  proper  time. 

The  train  almost  slid  to  a  halt  from  the  pressure 
of  the  hard- jammed  brakes.  A  volley  of  shots  rang 
out.  Curly  slipped  the  mask  over  his  face  and 
rose  with  a  revolver  in  each  hand.  He  had  been 
sitting  at  the  end  of  the  car,  so  that  nobody  noticed 
him  until  his  voice  rang  out  with  a  crisp  order. 

"Hands  up!    Don't  anybody  move!" 

An  earthquake  shock  could  not  have  alarmed  the 
passengers  more.  The  color  was  washed  com 
pletely  from  the  faces  of  most  of  them. 

"Reach  for  the  roof.  Corne,  punch  a  hole  in  the 
sky!"  To  do  it  thoroughly,  Curly  flung  a  couple 
of  shots  through  the  ceiling.  That  was  enough. 
Hands  went  up  without  any  argument,  most  of  them 
quivering  as  from  an  Arkansas  chill. 

301 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

Presently  Cranston  herded  the  passengers  in  from 
the  forward  coaches.  With  them  were  most  of  the 
train  crew.  The  front  door  of  the  car  was  locked 
so  that  they  could  not  easily  get  out. 

"We're  cutting  off  the  express  car  and  going 
forward  to  'Dobe  Wells  with  it.  There  we  can 
blow  open  the  safe  uninterrupted,"  Bad  Bill  ex 
plained.  "You  ride  herd  on  the  passengers  here 
from  the  outside  till  you  hear  two  shots,  then  hump 
yourself  forward  and  hop  on  the  express  car." 

Fine !  Curly  was  to  stand  out  there  in  the  moon 
light  and  let  anybody  in  the  car  that  had  the  nerve 
pepper  away  at  him.  If  they  did  not  attend  to 
the  job  of  riddling  him,  his  false  friends  would  do 
it  while  he  was  running  forward  to  get  aboard. 
Nothing  could  have  been  simpler — if  he  had  not 
happened  to  have  had  inside  information  of  their 
intent. 

He  had  to  think  quickly,  for  the  plans  of  him 
and  his  friends  had  been  deranged.  They  had 
reckoned  on  the  express  car  being  rifled  on  the  spot. 
This  would  have  given  Cullison  time  to  reach  the 
scene  of  action.  Now  they  would  be  too  late.  Ma- 
loney,  lying  snugly  in  the  bear  grass  beside  the, 
track,  would  not  be  informed  as  to  the  arrange 
ment  Unless  Curly  could  stop  it,  the  hold-up 
would  go  through  according  to  the  program  of 
Soapy  and  not  of  his  enemies. 

302 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

The  decision  of  Flandrau  was  instantaneous.  He 
slid  down  beside  the  track  into  the  long  grass. 
Whipping  up  one  of  his  guns,  he  fired.  As  if 
in  answer  to  the  first  shot  his  revolver  cracked 
twice.  Simultaneously,  he  let  out  a  cry  of  pain, 
wriggled  back  for  a  dozen  yards  through  the 
grass,  and  crossed  the  track  in  the  darkness.  As 
he  crouched  down  close  to  the  wheels  of  the 
sleeper  someone  came  running  back  on  the  other 
side. 

"What's  up,  Sam?  You  hit?"  he  could  hear 
Blackwell  whisper. 

No  answer  came.  The  paroled  convict  was  stand 
ing  close  to  the  car  for  fear  of  being  hit  himself 
and  he  dared  not  move  forward  into  the  grass  to 
investigate. 

"Sam,"  he  called  again;  then,  "He's  sure  got 
his." 

That  was  all  Curly  wanted  to  know.  Softly  he 
padded  forward,  keeping  as  low  as  he  could  till  he 
reached  the  empty  sleepers.  A  brakeman  was  just 
uncoupling  the  express  car  when  Curly  dived  under 
neath  and  nestled  close  to  tire  trucks. 

From  where  he  lay  he  could  almost  have  reached 
out  and  touched  Soapy  standing  by  the  car. 

"What  about  the  kid?"  Stone  asked  Blackwell 
as  the  latter  came  up. 

"They  got  him.    Didn't  you  hear  him  yelp?" 
303 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

"Yes,  but  did  they  put  him  out  of  business? 
See  his  body?" 

Blackwell  had  no  intention  of  going  back  into 
the  fire  zone  and  making  sure.  For  his  part  he  was 
satisfied.  So  he  lied. 

"Yep.     Blew  the  top  of  his  head  off." 

"Good,"  Soapy  nodded.  "That's  a  receipt  in 
full  for  Mr.  Luck  Cullison." 

The  wheels  began  to  move.  Soon  they  were 
hitting  only  the  high  spots.  Curly  guessed  they 
must  be  doing  close  to  sixty  miles  an  hour.  Down 
where  he  was  the  dust  was  flying  so  thickly  he 
could  scarce  breathe,  as  it  usually  does  on  an  Arizona 
track  in  the  middle  of  summer. 

Before  many  minutes  the  engine  began  to  slow 
down.  The  wheels  had  hardly  stopped  moving  when 
Curly  crept  out,  plowed  through  the  sand,  up  the 
rubble  of  a  little  hill,  and  into  a  draw  where  a 
bunch  of  scrub  oaks  offered  cover. 

A  voice  from  in  front  called  to  him.  Just  then 
the  moon  appeared  from  behind  drifting  clouds. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  Sam.     Everything  all  right?" 

"Right  as  the  wheat.  We're  blowing  open  the 
safe  now,"  Flandrau  answered. 

Moving  closer,  he  saw  that  his  questioner  was 
the  man  in  charge  of  the  horses.  Though  he  knew 
the  voice,  he  could  not  put  a  name  to  its  owner. 
But  this  was  not  the  point  that  first  occupied  his 

304 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

mind.  There  were  only  four  horses  for  five  riders. 
Curly  knew  now  that  he  had  not  been  mistaken. 
Soapy  had  expected  one  of  his  allies  to  stay  on  the 
field  of  battle,  had  prepared  for  it  from  the  be 
ginning.  The  knowledge  of  this  froze  any  remorse 
the  young  vaquero  might  have  felt. 

He  pushed  his  revolver  against  the  teeth  of  the 
horse  wrangler. 

"Don't  move,  you  bandy-legged  maverick,  or  I'll 
fill  your  hide  full  of  holes.  And  if  you  want  to 
keep  on  living  padlock  that  mouth  of  yours." 

In  spite  of  his  surprise  the  man  caught  the  point 
at  once.  He  turned  over  his  weapons  without  a 
word. 

Curly  unwound  a  rope  from  one  of  the  saddles 
and  dropped  a  loop  round  the  neck  of  his  prisoner. 
The  two  men  mounted  and  rode  out  of  the  draw, 
the  outlaw  leading  the  other  two  horses.  As  soon 
as  they  reached  the  bluff  above  Flandrau  outlined 
the  next  step  in  the  program. 

"We'll  stay  here  in  the  tornilla  and  see  what 
happens,  my  friend.  Unless  you've  a  fancy  to  get 
}ead  poisoning  keep  still." 

"Who  in  Mexico  are  you?"  the  captured  man 
asked. 

"It's  your  showdown.     Skin  off  that  mask." 

The  man  hesitated.  His  own  revolver  moved  a 
few  inches  toward  his  head.  Hastily  he  took  off 

3°5 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

the  mask.  The  moon  shone  on  the  face  of  the  maa 
called  Dutch.  Flandrau  laughed.  Last  time  they 
had  met  Curly  had  a  rope  around  his  neck.  Now 
the  situation  was  reversed. 

An  explosion  below  told  them  that  the  robbers 
had  blown  open  the  safe.  Presently  Soapy's  voice 
came  faintly  to  them. 

"Bring  up  the  horses." 

He  called  again,  and  a  third  time.  The  dwarfed 
figures  of  the  outlaws  stood  out  clear  in  the  moon 
light.  One  of  them  ran  up  the  track  toward  the 
draw.  He  disappeared  into  the  scrub  oaks,  from 
whence  his  alarmed  voice  came  in  a  minute. 

"Dutch!    Oh,  Dutch!" 

The  revolver  rim  pressed  a  little  harder  against 
the  bridge  of  the  horse  wrangler's  nose. 

"He  ain't  here,"  Blackwell  called  back  to  his 
accomplices. 

That  brought  Stone  on  the  run.  "You  con 
demned  idiot,  he  must  be  there.  Ain't  he  had  two 
hours  to  get  here  since  he  left  Tin  Cup?" 

They  shouted  themselves  hoarse.  They  wandered 
up  and  down  in  a  vain  search.  All  the  time  Curly 
and  his  prisoner  sat  in  the  brush  and  scarcely  batted 
an  eye. 

At  last  Soapy  gave  up  the  hunt.  The  engine 
and  the  express  car  were  sent  back  to  join  the  rest 
of  the  train  and  as  soon  as  they  were  out  of  sight 

306 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

the  robbers  set  out  across  country  toward  the  Flat- 
iron  ranch. 

Curly  guessed  their  intentions.  They  would  rustle 
horses  there  and  head  for  the  border.  It  was  the 
only  chance  still  left  them. 

After  they  had  gone  Curly  and  his  prisoner  re 
turned  to  the  road  and  set  out  toward  Tin  Cup. 
About  a  mile  and  a  half  up  the  line  they  met  Culli- 
son  and  his  riders  on  the  way  down.  Maloney  was 
with  them.  He  had  been  picked  up  at  the  station. 

Dick  gave  a  shout  of  joy  when  he  heard  Flan- 
drau's  voice. 

"Oh,  you  Curly!  I've  been  scared  stiff  for  fear 
they'd  got  you/' 

Luck  caught  the  boy's  hand  and  wrung  it  hard. 
"You  plucky  young  idiot,  you've  got  sand  in  your 
craw.  What  the  deuce  did  you  do  it  for?" 

They  held  a  conference  while  the  Circle  C  riders 
handcuffed  Dutch  and  tied  him  to  a  horse.  Soon 
the  posse  was  off  again,  having  left  the  prisoner 
in  charge  of  one  of  the  men.  They  swung  round 
in  a  wide  half  circle,  not  wishing  to  startle  their 
game  until  the  proper  time.  The  horses  pounded 
up  hills,  slid  into  washes,  and  plowed  through  sand 
on  a  Spanish  trot,  sometimes  in  the  moonlight, 
more  often  in  darkness.  The  going  was  rough, 
but  they  could  not  afford  to  slacken  speed. 

When  they  reached  the  edge  of  the  mesa  that 
307 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

looked  down  on  the  Flatiron  the  moon  was  out  and 
the  valley  was  swimming  in  light.  They  followed 
the  dip  of  a  road  that  led  down  to  the  corral.  Pass 
ing  the  fenced  lane  leading  to  the  stable,  they  tied 
their  ponies  inside  and  took  the  places  assigned  to 
them  by  Cullison. 

They  had  not  long  to  wait.  In  less  than  half  an 
hour  three  shadowy  figures  slipped  round  the  edge 
of  the  corral  and  up  the  lane.  Each  of  them  carried 
a  rifle  in  addition  to  his  hip  guns. 

They  slid  into  the  open  end  of  the  stable.  Culli- 
son's  voice  rang  out  coldly. 

"Drop  your  guns!" 

A  startled  oath,  a  shot,  and  before  one  could  have 
lifted  a  hand  that  silent  moonlit  valley  of  peace  had 
become  a  battlefield. 

The  outlaws  fell  back  from  the  stable,  weapons 
smoking  furiously.  Blackwell  broke  into  a  run, 
never  looking  behind  him,  but  Soapy  and  Bad  Bill 
gave  back  foot  by  foot  fighting  every  step  of  the 
way. 

Dick  and  Curly  rose  from  behind  the  rocks  where 
they  had  been  placed  and  closed  the  trap  on  Black- 
well.  The  paroled  convict  let  out  one  yell. 

"I  give  up.     Goddlemighty,  don't  shoot!" 

His  rifle  he  had  already  thrown  away.  With  his 
arms  reaching  above  him,  his  terror-stricken  eyes 
popping  from  his  head,  he  was  a  picture  of  the  most 

308 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

frightened  "bad  man"  who  had  ever  done  business 
in  Arizona, 

Half  way  down  the  lane  Cranston  was  hit.  He 
sank  to  his  knees,  and  from  there  lopped  over  side 
ways  to  his  left  elbow.  In  the  darkness  his  voice 
could  be  heard,  for  the  firing  had  momentarily 
ceased. 

"They've  got  me,  Soapy,  Run  for  it.  I'll  hold 
'em  back." 

"Hit  bad,  Bill?" 

"I'm  all  in.     Vcmos!" 

Stone  turned  to  run,  and  for  the  first  time  saw 
that  his  retreat  was  cut  off.  As  fast  as  he  could 
pump  the  lever  his  rifle  began  working  again. 

The  firing  this  time  did  not  last  more  than  five 
seconds.  When  the  smoke  cleared  it  was  all  over. 
Soapy  lay  on  his  back,  shot  through  and  through. 
Blackwell  had  taken  advantage  of  the  diversion  to 
crawl  through  the  strands  of  barbed  wire  and  to 
disappear  in  the  chaparral.  Bill  had  rolled  over  on 
his  face. 

Curly  crept  through  the  fence  after  the  escaping 
man,  but  in  that  heavy  undergrowth  he  knew  it 
was  like  looking  for  a  needle  in  a  haystack.  After 
a  time  he  gave  it  up  and  returned  to  the  field  of 
battle. 

Dick  was  bending  over  Stone.  He  looked  up  at 
the  approach  of  his  friend  and  said  just  one  word. 

309 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND   STRAIGHT 

"Dead." 

Cullison  had  torn  open  Cranston's  shirt  and  was 
examining  his  wounds. 

"No  use,  Luck.  I've  got  a-plenty.  You  sure 
fooled  us  thorough.  Was  it  Sam  gave  us  away?" 

"No,  Bill.  Curly  overheard  Soapy  and  Blackwell 
at  Chalkeye's  Place.  Sam  stood  pat,  though  you 
were  planning  to  murder  him." 

"I  wasn't  in  on  that,  Luck — didn't  know  a  thing 
about  it  till  after  the  boy  was  shot.  I  wouldn't 
a-stood  for  it." 

"He  wasn't  shot.  Curly  saved  him.  He  had  to 
give  you  away  to  do  it," 

"Good  enough.  Serves  Soapy  right  for  double 
crossing  Sam.  Take  care  of  that  kid,  Luck.  He's 
all  right  yet."  His  eye  fell  on  Flandrau.  "You're 
a  game  sport,  son.  You  beat  us  all.  No  hard 
feelings." 

"Sorry  it  had  to  be  this  way,  Bill." 

The  dying  man  was  already  gray  to  the  lips,  but 
his  nerve  did  not  falter.  "It  had  to  come  some 
time.  And  it  was  Luck  ought  to  have  done  it  too." 
He  waved  aside  Sweeney,  who  was  holding  a  flask 
to  his  lips.  "What's  the  use?  I've  got  mine." 

"Shall  we  take  him  to  the  house?"  Maloney 
asked. 

"No.  I'll  die  in  the  open.  Say,  there's  some 
thing  else,  boys.  Curly  has  been  accused  of  that 

310 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

Bar  Double  M  horse  rustling  back  in  the  early  sum 
mer.  I  did  that  job.  He  was  not  one  of  us.  You 
hear,  boys.  Curly  was  not  in  it." 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  he  died.  He  had  lied 
to  save  from  the  penitentiary  the  lad  who  had 
brought  about  his  death.  Curly  knew  why  he  had 
done  it — because  he  felt  himself  to  blame  for  the 
affair.  Maybe  Bad  Bill  had  been  a  desperado,  a 
miscreant  according  to  the  usual  standard,  but  when 
it  came  to  dying  he  knew  how  to  go  better  than 
many  a  respectable  citizen.  Curly  stole  off  into  the 
darkness  so  that  the  boys  would  not  see  him  play 
the  baby. 

By  this  time  the  men  from  the  Flatiron  were  ap 
pearing,  armed  with  such  weapons  as  they  could 
hastily  gather.  The  situation  was  explained  to 
them.  Neighboring  ranches  were  called  up  by  tele 
phone  and  a  systematic  hunt  started  to  capture 
Black-well. 

Luck  left  his  three  riders  to  help  in  the  man  hunt, 
but  he  returned  with  Curly  and  Maloney  to 
Saguache.  On  the  pommel  of  his  saddle  was  a 
sack.  It  contained  the  loot  from  the  express  car 
of  the  Flyer.  Two  lives  already  had  been  sacrificed 
to  get  it,  and  the  sum  total  taken  amounted  only 
to  one  hundred  ninety-four  dollars  and  sixteen 
cents. 


CHAPTER  XVII 
THE   PRODIGAL   SON 

They  found  the  prodigal  son  with  his  sister  and 
Laura  London  at  the  Del  Mar.  Repentance  was 
writ  large  all  over  his  face  and  manner.  From 
Davis  and  from  the  girls  he  had  heard  the  story  of 
how  Soapy  Stone  had  intended  to  destroy  him.  His 
scheme  of  life  had  been  broken  into  pieces  and  he 
was  a  badly  shaken  young  scamp. 

When  Luck  and  Curly  came  into  the  room  he 
jumped  up,  very  white  about  the  lips. 

"Father!" 

"My  boy!" 

Cullison  had  him  by  the  hand,  one  arm  around 
the  shaking  shoulders. 

"What what ?" 

Sam's  question  broke  down,  but  his  father  guessed 
it 

"Soapy  and  Bad  Bill  were  killed,  Dutch  is  a 
prisoner,  and  Blackwell  escaped.  All  Spring  Valley 
is  out  after  him." 

The  boy  was  aghast.    "My  God !" 

"Best  thing  for  all  of  us.  Soapy  meant  to  murder 
you.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  Curly — — " 

"Are  you  sure?" 

312 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

"No  question  about  it.  He  brought  no  horse  for 
you  to  ride  away  on.  Bill  admitted  it,  though  he 
didn't  know  what  was  planned.  Curly  heard  Soapy 
ask  Blackwell  whether  he  had  seen  your  body." 

The  boy  shuddered  and  drew  a  long  sobbing 
breath.  "I've  been  a  fool,  Father — and  worse." 

"Forget  it,  son.  We'll  wipe  the  slate  clean.  I've 
been  to  blame  too." 

It  was  no  place  for  outsiders.  Curly  beat  a  re 
treat  into  the  next  room.  The  young  women  fol 
lowed  him.  Both  of  them  were  frankly  weeping. 
Arms  twined  about  each  other's  waists,  they  dis 
appeared  into  an  adjoining  bedroom. 

"'Don't  go,"  Kate  called  to  him  over  her  shoulder. 

Curly  sat  down  and  waited.  Presently  Kate  came 
back  alone.  Her  shining  eyes  met  his. 

"I  never  was  so  happy  in  all  my  life  before.  Tell 
me  what  happened — everything  please." 

As  much  as  was  good  for  her  to  know  Curly 
told.  Without  saying  a  word  she  listened  till  he 
was  through.  Then  she  asked  a  question. 

"Won't  Dutch  tell  about  Sam  being  in  it?" 

"Don't  matter  if  he  does.  Evidence  of  an  ac 
complice  not  enough  to  convict.  Soapy  overshot 
himself.  I'm  here  to  testify  that  Sam  and  he 
quarrelled  before  Sam  left.  Besides,  Dutch  won't 
talk.  I  drilled  it  into  him  thorough  that  he'd  better 
take  his  medicine  without  bringing  Sam  in." 

313 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

She  sat  for  a  long  time  looking  out  of  the  win 
dow  without  moving.  She  did  not  make  the  least 
sound,  but  the  young  man  knew  she  was  crying 
softly  to  herself.  At  last  she  spoke  in  a  low  sweet 
{Voice. 

"What  can  we  do  for  you?  First  you  save 
Father  and  then  Sam.  You  risked  everything  for 
my  brother — to  win  him  back  to  us,  to  save  his 
life  and  now  his  reputation.  If  you  had  been  killed 
people  would  always  have  believed  you  were  one 
of  the  gang." 

"Sho!  That's  nonsense,  Miss  Kate."  He 
twisted  his  hat  in  his  hand  uneasily.  "Honest,  I 
•enjoyed  every  bit  of  it  And  a  fellow  has  to  pay 
his  debts." 

"Was  that  why  you  did  it?"  she  asked  softly. 

"Yes.  I  had  to  make  good.  I  had  to  show  your 
father  and  you  that  I  had  not  thrown  away  all  your 
kindness.  So  I  quit  travelling  that  downhill  road 
on  which  I  had  got  started." 

"I'm  glad — I'm  so  glad."  She  whispered  it  so 
low  he  could  hardly  hear. 

"There  was  one  way  to  prove  myself.  That  was 
$o  stand  between  Sam  and  trouble.  So  I  butted  in 
and  spoiled  Soapy's  game." 

"I  wish  I  could  tell  you  how  fine  Father  thinks 
it  was  of  you.  He  doesn't  speak  of  it  much,  but 
I  know." 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

"Nothing  to  what  I  did — nothing  at  all."  A  wave 
of  embarrassment  had  crept  to  the  roots  of  his  curly 
hair.  "Just  because  a  fellow — Oh,  shucks!" 

"That's  all  very  well  for  you  to  say,  but  you  can't 
help  us  thinking  what  we  please." 

"But  that  ain't  right.  I  don't  want  you  thinking 
things  that  ain't  so  because " 

"Yes?    Because ?" 

She  lifted  her  eyes  and  met  his.  Then  she  knew 
it  had  to  come  out,  that  the  feeling  banked  in  him 
would  overflow  in  words. 

"Because  you're  the  girl  I  love." 

He  had  not  intended  to  say  it  now,  lest  he  might 
seem  to  be  urging  his  services  as  a  claim  upon  her. 
But  the  words  had  slipped  out  in  spite  of  him. 

She  held  out  her  two  hands  to  him  with  a  little 
gesture  of  surrender.  The  light  of  love  was  in  her 
starry  eyes. 

And  then 

She  was  in  his  arms,  and  the  kisses  he  hac? 
dreamed  about  were  on  his  lips. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
CUTTING   TRAIL 

Kate  Cullison  had  disappeared,  had  gone  out  rid 
ing  one  morning  and  at  nightfall  had  not  returned. 
As  the  hours  passed,  anxiety  at  the  Circle  C  became 
greater. 

"Mebbe  she  got  lost/'  Bob  suggested. 

Her  father  scouted  this  as  absurd.  "Lost  noth 
ing.  You  couldn't  lose  her  within  forty  miles  of 
the  ranch.  She  knows  this  country  like  a  cow 
does  the  range.  And  say  she  was  lost — all  she 
would  have  to  do  would  be  to  give  that  pinto  his 
head  and  he'd  hit  a  bee  line  for  home.  No,  nor 
she  ain't  had  an  accident  either,  unless  it  included 
the  pony  too." 

"You  don't  reckon  a  cougar ,"  began 

Sweeney,  and  stopped. 

Luck  looked  at  his  bandy-legged  old  rider  with 
eyes  in  which  little  cold  devils  sparkled.  "A  human 
Cougar,  I'll  bet.  This  time  I'll  take  his  hide  off 
inch  by  inch  while  he's  still  living." 

"You  thinking  of  Fendrick  ?"  asked  Sam. 

"You've  said  it." 

Sweeney  considered,  rasping  his  stubbly  chin.  "I 
316 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

don't  reckon  Cass  would  do  Miss  Kate  a  meanness. 
He's  a  white  man,  say  the  worst  of  him.  But  it 
might  be  Elackwell.  When  last  seen  he  was  head 
ing  into  the  hills.  If  he  met  her " 

A  spasm  of  pain  shot  across  Luck's  face.  "My 
God !  That  would  be  awful." 

"By  Gum,  there  he  is  now,  Luck."  Sweeney's 
finger  pointed  to  an  advancing  rider. 

Cullison  swung  as  on  a  pivot  in  time  to  see  some 
one  drop  into  the  dip  in  the  road,  just  beyond  the 
corral.  "Who— Blackwell  ?" 

"No.    Cass." 

Fendrick  reappeared  presently  and  turned  in  at 
the  lane.  Cullison,  standing  on  the  porch  at  the 
head  of  the  steps  looked  like  a  man  who  was  pass 
ing  through  the  inferno.  But  he  looked  too  a  per 
sonified  day  of  judgment  untempered  by  mercy. 
His  eyes  bored  like  steel  gimlets  into  those  of  his 
enemy. 

The  sheepman  spoke,  looking  straight  at  His  foe. 
"I've  just  heard  the  news.  I  was  down  at  Yesler's 
ranch  when  you  'phoned  asking  if  they  had  seen 
anything  of  Miss  Cullison.  I  came  up  to  ask  you 
one  question.  When  was  she  seen  last?" 

"About  ten  o'clock  this  morning.    Why?" 

"I  saw  her  about  noon.  She  was  on  Mesa  Verde, 
headed  for  Blue  Canon  looked  like." 

"Close  enough  to  speak  to  her?"  Sam  asked 
317 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

"Yes.    We  passed  the  time  of  day." 

"And  then  ?"  Luck  cut  back  into  the  conversation 
with  a  voice  like  a  file. 

"She  went  on  toward  the  gulch  and  I  kept  on  to 
the  ranch.  The  last  I  saw  of  her  she  was  going 
straight  on." 

"And  you  haven't  seen  her  since?" 

The  manner  of  the  questioner  startled  Fendrick. 
"God,  man,  you  don't  think  I'm  in  this,  do  you?" 

"If  you  are  you'd  better  blow  your  brains  out 
before  I  learn  it.  And  if  you're  trying  to  lead  me 

on  a  false  scent "  Luck  stopped.  Words  failed 

him,  but  his  iron  jaw  clamped  like  a  vice. 

Fendrick  spoke  quietly.  "I'm  willing.  In  the 
meantime  we'd  better  travel  over  toward  Mesa 
Verde,  so  as  to  be  ready  to  start  at  daybreak." 

Cullison's  gaze  had  never  left  him.  It  observed, 
weighed,  appraised.  "Good  enough.  We'll  start." 

He  left  Sweeney  to  answer  the  telephone  while  he 
was  away.  All  of  his  other  riders  were  already 
out  combing  the  hills  under  supervision  of  Curly. 
Luck  had  waited  with  Sam  only  to  get  some  definite 
information  before  starting.  Now  he  had  his  lead. 
Fendrick  was  either  telling  the  truth  or  he  was  lying 
with  some  sinister  purpose  in  view.  The  cattleman 
meant  to  know  which. 

Morning  breaks  early  in  Arizona.  By  the  time 
they  had  come  to  the  spot  where  the  sheepman  said 

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CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

he  had  met  Kate  gray  streaks  were  already  lighten 
ing  the  sky.  The  party  moved  forward  slowly  to 
ward  the  canon,  spreading  out  so  as  to  cover  as 
much  ground  as  possible.  Before  they  reached  its 
mouth  the  darkness  had  lifted  enough  to  show  the 
track  of  a  horse  in  the  sand. 

They  pushed  up  the  gulch  as  rapidly  as  they 
could.  The  ashes  of  a  camp  fire  halted  them  a  few 
minutes  later.  Scattered  about  lay  the  feathers  and 
dismembered  bones  of  some  birds. 

Cass  stooped  and  picked  up  some  of  the  feathers. 
"Quails,  I  reckon.  Miss  Cullison  had  three  tied 
to  her  saddle  horn  when  I  met  her." 

"Why  did  she  come  up  here  to  cook  them?"  Sam 
asked. 

Luck  was  already  off  his  horse,  quartering  over 
the  ground  to  read  what  it  might  tell  him. 

"She  wasn't  alone.  There  was  a  man  with  her. 
See  these  tracks." 

It  was  Fendrick  who  made  the  next  discovery. 
He  had  followed  a  draw  for  a  short  distance  and 
climbed  to  a  little  mesa  above.  Presently  he  called 
to  Cullison. 

Father  and  son  hurried  toward  him.  The  sheep- 
owner  was  standing  at  the  edge  of  a  prospect  hole 
pointing  down  with  his  finger. 

"Someone  has  been  in  that  pit  recently,  and  he's 
been  there  several  days." 

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CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT 

"Then  how  did  he  get  out?"  Sam  asked. 

Fendrick  knelt  on  the  edge  of  the  pit  and  showed 
him  where  a  rope  had  been  dragged  so  heavily  that 
it  had  cut  deeply  into  the  clay. 

"Someone  pulled  him  out." 

"What's  it  mean  anyhow?  Kate  wasn't  in  that 
hole,  was  she?" 

Cass  shook  his  head.  "This  is  my  guess.  Some 
one  was  coming  along  here  in  the  dark  and  fell  in. 
Suppose  Miss  Cullison  heard  him  calling  as  she 
came  up  the  gulch.  What  would  she  do?" 

"Come  up  and  help  the  fellow  out." 

"Sure  she  would.  And  if  he  was  hungry — as  he 
likely  was — she  would  cook  her  quail  for  him." 

"And  then?    Why  didn't  she  come  home?" 

Luck  turned  a  gray  agonized  face  on  him,  "Boy, 
don't  you  see?  The  man  was  Blackwell." 

"And  if  you'll  put  yourself  in  Blackwell's  place 
you'll  see  that  he  couldn't  let  her  go  home  to  tell 
where  she  had  seen  him,"  Fendrick  explained. 

"Then  where  is  she?    What  did  he  do  with  her?" 

There  came  a  moment's  heavy  silence.  The  pale 
face  of  the  boy  turned  from  the  sheepman  to  his 
father.  "You  don't  think  that— that " 

"No,  I  don't,"  Cass  answered.  "But  let's  look 
this  thing  squarely  in  the  face.  There  were  three 
things  he  could  do  with  her.  First,  he  might  leave 
her  in  the  pit.  He  didn't  do  that  because  he  hadn't 

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CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

the  nerve.  She  might  be  found  soon  and  set  the 
hunters  on  his  track.  Or  she  might  die  in  that  hole 
and  he  be  captured  later  with  her  pinto.  I  know 
him.  He  always  plays  a  waiting  game  when  he 
can.  Takes  no  chances  if  he  can  help  it." 

"You  think  he  took  her  with  him  then,"  Luck 
said. 

"Yes.  There's  a  third  possibility.  He  may  have 
shot  her  when  he  got  a  good  chance,  but  I  don't 
think  so.  He  would  keep  her  for  a  hostage  as  long 
as  he  could." 

"That's  the  way  I  figure  it,"  agreed  Cullison. 
"He  daren't  hurt  her,  for  he  would  know  Arizona 
would  hunt  him  down  like  a  wolf  if  he  did." 

"Then  where's  he  taking  her?"  Sam  asked. 

"Somewhere  into  the  hills.  He  knows  every 
pocket  of  them.  His  idea  will  be  to  slip  down  and 
cut  across  the  line  into  Sonora.  He's  a  rotten  bad 
lot,  but  he  won't  do  her  any  harm  unless  he's  pushed 
to  the  wall.  The  fear  of  Luck  Cullison  is  in  his 
heart." 

"That's  about  it,"  nodded  Luck.  "He's  some 
where  in  these  hills  unless  he's  broken  through. 
Bolt  'phoned  me  that  one  of  his  posse  came  on  the 
ashes  of  a  camp  fire  still  warm.  They're  closing  in 
on  him.  He's  got  to  get  food  or  starve,  unless  he 
can  break  through." 

"There's  a  chance  he'll  make  for  one  of  my  sheep 
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CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

camps  to  lay  in  a  supply.  Wouldn't  it  be  a  good 
idea  to  keep  a  man  stationed  at  each  one  of  them?" 
<fYou're  talking  sense/'  Cullison  approved.  "Sam, 
ride  back  and  get  in  touch  with  Curly.  Tell  him 
to  do  that.  And  rouse  the  whole  country  over  the] 
wire.  We'll  run  him  down  and  feed  him  to  the 
coyotes," 


322 


CHAPTER  XIX 
A   GOOD    SAMARITAN 

Fendrick  had  told  the  exact  truth.  After  leaving 
him  Kate  had  ridden  forward  to  the  canon  and  en 
tered  it  She  did  not  mean  to  go  much  farther, 
but  she  took  her  time.  More  than  once  she  slipped 
from  under  a  fold  of  her  waist  a  letter  and  reread 
sentences  of  it.  Whenever  she  did  this  her  eyes 
smiled.  For  it  was  a  love  letter  from  Curly,  the 
first  she  had  ever  had.  It  had  been  lying  on  the 
inner  edge  of  the  threshold  of  her  bedroom  door 
that  morning  when  she  got  up,  and  she  knew  that 
her  lover  had  risen  early  to  put  it  there  unnoticed. 

They  were  to  be  married  soon.  Curly  had  wished 
to  wait  till  after  his  trial,  but  she  had  overruled  him. 
Both  her  father  and  Sam  had  sided  with  her,  for 
she  had  made  them  both  see  what  an  advantage 
fit  would  be  with  a  jury  for  Flandrau  to  have  his 
bride  sitting  beside  him  in  the  courtroom. 

Faintly  there  came  to  her  a  windswept  sound. 
She  pulled  up  and  waited,  but  no  repetition  of  it 
reached  her  ears.  But  before  her  pony  had  moved 

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CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

a  dozen  steps  she  stopped  him  again.  This  time 
she  was  almost  sure  of  a  far  cry,  and  after  it  the 
bark  of  a  revolver. 

With  the  touch  of  a  rein  she  guided  her  horse 
toward  the  sound.  It  might  mean  nothing.  On 
the  other  hand  it  might  be  a  call  for  help.  Her 
shout  brought  an  answer  which  guided  her  to  the 
edge  of  a  prospect  hole.  In  the  darkness  she  made 
out  an  indistinct  figure. 

"Water/'  a  husky  voice  demanded. 

She  got  her  canteen  from  the  saddle  and  dropped 
it  to  him.  The  man  glued  his  lips  to  the  mouth  as 
if  he  could  never  get  enough. 

"For  God's  sake  get  me  out  of  here,"  he  pleaded 
piteously. 

"How  long  have  you  been  there?" 

"Two  days.  I  fell  in  at  night  whilst  I  was  cut 
ting  acrost  country." 

Kate  fastened  her  rope  to  the  horn  of  the  saddle, 
tightened  the  cinch  carefully,  and  dropped  the  other 
end  to  him.  She  swung  to  the  back  of  the  horse 
and  braced  herself  by  resting  her  full  weight  on  the 
farther  stirrup. 

"Now,"  she  told  him. 

The  imprisoned  man  tried  to  pull  himself  up, 
bracing  his  feet  against  the  rough  projections  of 
the  rock  wall  to  help  him.  But  he  could  not  manage 
the  climb.  At  last  he  gave  it  up  with  an  oath. 

324 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

"We'll  try  another  way,"  the  girl  told  him  cheer 
fully. 

At  spaces  about  a  foot  distant  she  tied  knots  in 
the  rope  for  about  the  first  six  feet. 

"This  time  you'll  make  it/'  she  promised.  "You 
can  get  up  part  way  as  you  did  before.  Then  I'll 
start  my  horse  forward.  Keep  braced  out  from 
the  wall  so  as  not  to  get  crushed." 

He  growled  an  assent.  Once  more  she  got  into 
the  saddle  and  gave  the  word.  He  dragged  himself 
up  a  few  feet  and  then  the  cowpony  moved  for 
ward.  The  legs  of  the  man  doubled  up  under  the 
strain  and  he  was  crushed  against  the  wall  just  as 
he  reached  the  top.  However,  he  managed  to  hang 
on  and  was  dragged  over  the  edge  with  one  cheek 
scratched  and  bleeding. 

"Might  a-known  you'd  hurt  me  if  you  moved  so 
fast,"  he  complained,  nursing  his  wounded  face  in 
such  a  way  as  to  hide  it. 

"I'm  sorry.  I  did  my  best  to  go  carefully,"  the 
girl  answered,  stepping  forward. 

His  hand  shot  forward  and  caught  her  wrist.  Her 
startled  eyes  flashed  to  his  face.  The  man  was  the 
convict  Blackwell. 

"Got  anything  to  eat  with  you.  I'm  starving/1 
he  snapped. 

"Yes.     I  shot  some  quail.     Let  go  my  hand." 

He  laughed  evilly,  without  mirth.  "Don't  try 
325 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

any  of  your  sassy  ways  on  me.  By  God,  I'm  a 
wolf  on  the  howl." 

In  spite  of  her  supple  slenderness  there  was 
strength  in  her  small  wrists.  She  fought  and 
twisted  till  she  was  worn  out  in  her  efforts  to  free 
herself.  Panting,  she  faced  him. 

"Let  me  go,  I  tell  you." 

For  answer  his  open  hand  struck  her  mouth. 
"Not  till  you  learn  your  boss.  Before  I'm  through 
with  you  a  squaw  won't  be  half  so  tame  as  you." 

He  dragged  her  to  the  horse,  took  from  its  case 
the  rifle  that  hung  by  the  saddle,  and  flung  her 
from  him  roughly.  Then  he  pulled  himself  to  the 
saddle. 

"March  ahead  of  me,"  he  ordered. 

As  soon  as  they  had  reached  the  bed  of  the  canon 
he  called  a  halt  and  bade  her  light  a  fire  and  cook 
him  the  quail.  She  gathered  ironwood  and  catclaw 
while  he  watched  her  vigilantly.  Together  they 
roasted  the  birds  by  holding  them  over  the  f»jre  with 
sharpened  sticks  thrust  through  the  wings.  He 
devoured  them  with  the  voracity  of  a  wild  beast. 

Hitherto  his  mind  had  been  busy  with  the  im 
mediate  present,  but  now  his  furtive  shifting  gaze 
rested  on  her  more  thoughtfully.  It  was  as  a  factor 
of  his  safety  that  he  considered  her.  Gratitude  was 
a  feeling  not  within  his  scope.  The  man's  mind 
worked  just  as  Fendrick  had  surmised.  He  would 

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CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

not  let  her  go  back  to  the  ranch  with  the  news  that 
he  was  hidden  in  the  hills  so  close  at  hand.  He 
dared  not  leave  her  in  the  prospect  hole.  He  was 
not  yet  ready  to  do  murder  for  fear  of  punish 
ment  That  was  a  possibility  to  be  considered  only 
if  he  should  be  hard  pressed.  The  only  alternative 
left  him  was  to  take  her  to  the  border  as  a  com 
panion  of  his  fugitive  doublings. 

"We'll  be  going  now,"  he  announced,  after  he 
had  eaten. 

"Going  where?  Don't  you  see  I'll  be  a  drag  to 
you?  Take  my  horse  and  go.  You'll  get  along 
faster." 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

She  opened  her  lips  to  answer,  but  there  was 
something  in  his  face — something  at  once  so  cruel 
and  deadly  and  wolfish — that  made  the  words  die 
on  her  lips.  For  the  first  time  it  came  to  her  that 
if  he  did  not  take  her  with  him  he  would  kill  her 
to  irs-ire  his  own  safety.  None  of  the  arguments 
that  would  have  availed  with  another  man  were  of 
any  weight  here.  Her  se&,  her  youth,  the  service 
she  had  done  him — these  would  not  count  a  straw. 
He  w^as  lost  to  all  the  instincts  of  honor  that  govern 
even  hard  desperate  men  of  his  class. 

They  struck  into  the  mountains,  following  a 
cattle  trail  that  wound  upward  with  devious  twists. 
The  man  rode,  and  the  girl  walked  in  front  with 

327 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

the  elastic  lightness,  the  unconscious  flexuous  grace 
of  poise  given  her  body  by  an  outdoor  life.  After 
a  time  they  left  the  gulch.  Steadily  they  traveled, 
up  dark  arroyos  bristling  with  mesquite,  across  little 
valleys  leading  into  timbered  stretches  through 
which  broken  limbs  and  uprooted  trees  made  prog 
ress  almost  impossible,  following  always  untrodden 
ways  that  appalled  with  their  lonely  desolation. 

By  dusk  they  were  up  in  the  headwaters  of  the 
creeks.  The  resilient  muscles  of  the  girl  had  lost 
their  spring.  She  moved  wearily,  her  feet  dragging 
heavily  so  that  sometimes  she  staggered  when  the 
ground  was  rough.  Not  once  had  the  man  offered 
her  the  horse.  He  meant  to  be  fresh,  ready  for 
any  emergency  that  might  come.  Moreover,  it 
pleased  his  small  soul  to  see  the  daughter  of  Luck 
Cullison  fagged  and  exhausted  but  still  answering 
the  spur  of  his  urge. 

The  moon  was  up  before  they  came  upon  a  tent 
shining  in  the  cold  silvery  light.  Beside  it  was  a 
sheetiron  stove,  a  box,  the  ashes  of  a  camp  fire, 
and  a  side  of  bacon  hanging  from  the  limb  of  a 
stunted  pine.  Cautiously  they  stole  forward. 

The  camp  was  for  the  time  deserted.  No  doubt 
its  owner,  a  Mexican  sheepherder  in  the  employ  of 
Fendrick  and  Dominguez,  was  out  somewhere  with 
his  flock. 

Kate  cooked  a  meal  and  the  convict  ate.  The 
328 


CROOKED    TRAILS    'AND    STRAIGHT 

girl  was  too  tired  and  anxious  to  care  for  food, 
but  she  made  herself  take  a  little.  They  packed 
the  saddlebags  with  bacon,  beans,  coffee  and  flour. 
Blackwell  tightened  again  the  cinches  and  once  more 
the  two  took  the  trail. 

They  made  camp  in  a  pocket  opening  from  a 
gulch  far  up  in  the  hills.  With  her  own  reata  he 
fastened  her  hands  behind  her  and  tied  the  girl 
securely  to  the  twisted  trunk  of  a  Joshua  tree.  To 
make  sure  of  her  he  lay  on  the  rope,  both  hands 
clinched  to  the  rifle.  In  five  minutes  he  was  asleep, 
but  it  was  long  before  Kate  could  escape  from 
wakefulness.  She  was  anxious,  her  nerves  were 
jumpy,  and  the  muscles  of  arms  and  shoulders  were 
cramped.  At  last  she  fell  into  troubled  catnaps. 

From  one  of  these  she  awoke  to  see  that  the 
morning  light  was  sifting  through  the  darkness. 
Her  bones  and  muscles  ached  from  the  constraint 
of  the  position  in  which  the  rope  held  them.  She 
was  shivering  with  the  chill  of  an  Arizona  mountain 
night.  Turning  her  body,  the  girl's  eyes  fell  upon 
her  captor.  He  was  looking  at  her  in  the  way  that 
no  decent  man  looks  at  a  woman.  Her  impulse  was 
to  scream,  to  struggle  to  her  feet  and  run.  What 
did  he  mean?  What  was  he  going  to  do? 

But  something  warned  her  this  would  precipitate 
the  danger.  She  called  upon  her  courage  and  tried 
to  still  the  fearful  tumult  in  her  heart.  Somehow 

329 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

she  succeeded.  A  scornful,  confident  pride  flashed 
from  her  eyes  into  his.  It  told  him  that  for  his 
life  he  dared  not  lay  a  finger  upon  her  in  the  way 
of  harm.  And  he  knew  it  was  true,  knew  that  if 
he  gave  way  to  his  desire  no  hole  under  heaven 
would  be  deep  enough  to  hide  him  from  the  ven 
geance  of  her  friends. 

He  got  sullenly  to  his  feet.  "Come.  We'll  b& 
going." 

Within  the  hour  they  saw  some  of  his  hunters. 
The  two  were  sweeping  around  the  lip  of  a  moun 
tain  park  nestling  among  the  summits.  A  wisp  of 
smoke  rose  from  the  basin  below.  Grouped  about 
it  were  three  men  eating  breakfast. 

"Don't  make  a  sound,"  warned  Blackwell. 

His  rifle  covered  her.  With  all  her  soul  she 
longed  to  cry  for  help.  But  she  dared  not  take  the 
risk.  Even  as  the  two  on  the  edge  of  the  bowl 
withdrew  from  sight  one  of  the  campers  rose  and 
sauntered  to  a  little  grove  where  the  ponies  were 
tethered.  The  distance  was  too  far  to  make  sure, 
but  something  in  the  gait  made  the  girl  sure  that 
the  man  was  Curly.  Her  hands  went  out  to  him  in 
a  piteous  little  gesture  of  appeal. 

She  was  right.  It  was  Curly.  He  was  thinking 
of  her  at  that  moment  despairingly,  but  no  bell  of 
warning  rang  within  to  tell  him  she  was  so  near 
and  in  such  fearful  need  of  him. 

330 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

Twice  during  the  morning  did  the  refugee  at 
tempt  to  slip  down  into  the  parched  desert  that 
stretched  toward  Sonora  and  safety.  But  the  cor 
don  set  about  him  was  drawn  too  close.  Each  time 
a  loose-seated  rider  lounging  in  the  saddle  with  a 
rifle  in  his  hands  drove  them  back.  The  second  at 
tempt  was  almost  disastrous,  for  the  convict  was 
seen.  The  hum  of  a  bullet  whistled  past  his  ears 
as  he  and  his  prisoner  drew  back  into  the  chaparral 
and  from  thence  won  back  to  cover. 

Kate,  drooping  with  fatigue,  saw  that  fear  rode 
Blackwell  heavily.  He  was  trapped  and  he  knew 
that  by  the  Arizona  code  his  life  was  forfeit  and 
would  be  exacted  of  him  should  he  be  taken.  He 
had  not  the  hardihood  to  game  it  out  in  silence, 
but  whined  complaints,  promises  and  threats.  He 
tried  to  curry  favor  with  her,  to  work  upon  her 
pity,  even  while  his  furtive  glances  told  her  that 
he  was  wondering  whether  he  would  have  a  better 
chance  if  he  sacrificed  her  life. 

From  gulch  to  arroyo,  from  rock-cover  to  pine- 
clad  hillside  he  was  driven  in  his  attempts  to  break 
the  narrowing  circle  of  grim  hunters  that  hemmed 
him.  And  with  each  failure,  with  every  passing 
hour,  the  terror  in  him  mounted.  He  would  have 
welcomed  life  imprisonment,  would  have  sold  the 
last  vestige  of  manhood  to  save  the  worthless  life 
that  would  soon  be  snuffed  out  unless  he  could 

331 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

evade  his  hunters  till  night  and  in  the  darkness 
break  through  the  line. 

He  knew  now  that  it  had  been  a  fatal  mistake  to 
bring  the  girl  with  him.  He  might  have  evaded 
Bolt's  posses,  but  now  every  man  within  fifty  miles 
was  on  the  lookout  for  him.  His  rage  turned 
against  Kate  because  of  it.  Yet  even  in  those  black 
outbursts  he  felt  that  he  must  cling  to  her  as  his 
only  hope  of  saving  himself.  He  had  made  an 
other  mistake  in  lighting  a  campfire  during  the 
morning.  Any  fool  ought  to  have  known  that 
the  smoke  would  draw  his  hunters  as  the  smell  of 
carrion  does  a  buzzard. 

Now  he  made  a  third  error.  Doubling  back 
over  an  open  stretch  of  hillside,  he  was  seen  again 
and  forced  into  the  first  pocket  that  opened.  It 
proved  to  be  a  blind  gulch,  one  offering  no  exit  at 
the  upper  end  but  a  stiff  rock  climb  to  a  bluff  above. 

He  whipped  off  his  coat  and  gave  it  to  Kate. 

"Put  it  on.     Quick." 

Surprised,  she  slipped  it  on. 

"Now  ride  back  out  and  cut  along  the  edge  of 
the  hill.  You've  got  time  to  make  it  all  right  be 
fore  they  close  in  if  you  travel  fast.  Stop  once — • 
just  once — and  I'll  drop  you  in  your  tracks.  Now 

git!" 

She  saw  his  object  in  a  flash.  Wearing  his  gray 
felt  hat  and  his  coat,  the  pursuers  would  mistake 

332 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

her  for  him.  They  would  follow  her — perhaps 
shoot  her  down.  Anyhow,  it  would  be  a  diversion 
to  draw  them  from  him.  Meanwhile  he  would  climb 
the  cliff  and  slip  away  unnoticed. 

The  danger  of  what  she  had  to  do  stood  out 
quite  dearly,  but  as  a  chance  to  get  away  from 
him  she  welcomed  it  gladly.  She  swung  the  pony 
with  a  touch  of  the  rein  and  set  him  instantly  at 
the  canter.  It  was  rough  going,  but  she  took  it 
almost  blindly. 

From  the  lip  of  the  gulch  she  swung  abruptly 
to  the  right.  Her  horse  stumbled  and  went  down 
just  as  a  bullet  flew  over  her  head  Before  she 
was  free  of  the  stirrups  strong  hands  pinned  her 
shoulders  to  the  ground.  She  heard  a  glad  startled 
cry.  The  rough  hands  became  immediately  gentle. 
Then  things  grew  black.  The  last  she  remembered 
was  that  the  mountains  were  dancing  up  and  down 
in  an  odd  fashion. 

Her  eyes  opened  to  see  Curly.  She  was  in  his 
arms  and  his  face  was  broken  with  emotions  of 
love  and  tenderness. 

"You're  not  hurt,"  he  implored. 

"No." 

"He  didn't — mistreat  you?"  His  voice  was 
trembling  as  he  whispered  it. 

"No— No." 

And  at  that  she  broke  down.    A  deep  sob  shook 

333 


CROOKED    TRAILS    AND    STRAIGHT 

her  body — and  another.     She  buried  her  head  on 
his  shoulder  and  wept. 

•  ••••••• 

Without  losing  an  instant  the  convict  set  him 
self  at  the  climb.  His  haste,  the  swift  glances  shot 
behind  him,  the  appalling  dread  that  made  his  nerves 
ragged,  delayed  his  speed  by  dissipating  the  single 
ness  of  his  energy.  His  face  and  hands  were  torn 
with  catclaw,  his  knee  bruised  by  a  slip  against  a 
sharp  jut  of  quartz. 

When  he  reached  the  top  he  was  panting  and 
shaken.  Before  he  had  moved  a  dozen  steps  a  man 
came  out  of  the  brush  scarce  seventy-five  yards  away 
and  called  to  him  to  surrender.  He  flung  his  rifle 
to  place  and  fired  twice. 

The  man  staggered  and  steadied  himself.  A 
shell  had  jammed  and  Black  well  could  not  throw  it 
out.  He  turned  to  run  as  the  other  fired.  But  he 
was  too  late.  He  stumbled,  tripped,  and  went  down 
full  length. 

The  man  that  had  shot  him  waited  for  him  to 
rise.  The  convict  did  not  move.  Cautiously  the 
wounded  hunter  came  forward,  his  eyes  never  lift 
ing  from  the  inert  sprawling  figure.  Even  now  he 
half  expected  him  to  spring  up,  life  and  energy  in 
every  tense  muscle.  Not  till  he  stood  over  him, 
till  he  saw  the  carelessly  flung  limbs,  the  uncouth 
twist  to  the  neck,  could  he  believe  that  so  slight  a 

334 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

crook  of  the  finger  had  sent  swift  death  across  the 
plateau. 

The  wounded  man  felt  suddenly  sick.  Leaning 
against  a  rock,  he  steadied  himself  till  the  nausea 
was  past.  Voices  called  to  him  from  the  plain  be 
low.  He  answered,  and  presently  circled  down  into 
the  gulch  which  led  to  the  open. 

At  the  gulch  mouth  he  came  on  a  little  group  of 
people.  One  glance  told  him  all  he  needed  to  know. 
Kate  Cullison  was  crying  in  the  arms  of  Curly 
Flandrau.  Simultaneously  a  man  galloped  up,  flung 
himself  from  his  horse,  and  took  the  young  woman 
from  her  lover. 

"My  little  girl,"  he  cried  in  a  voice  tnat  rang 
with  love. 

Luck  had  found  his  ewe  lamb  that  was  lost. 

It  was  Curly  who  first  saw  the  man  approaching 
from  the  gulch.  "Hello,  Cass!  Did  you  get  him?" 

Fendrick  nodded  wearily. 

"Dead  sure?" 

"Yep.  He's  up  there."  The  sheepman's  hand 
swept  toward  the  bluff. 

"You're  wounded." 

"Got  me  in  the  shoulder.  Nothing  serious,  I 
judge." 

Cullison  swung  around.  "Sure  about  that,  Cass  ?" 
It  was  the  first  time  for  years  that  he  had  called 
the  other  by  his  first  name  except  in  irony. 

335 


CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT 

"Sure." 

"Let's  have  a  look  at  the  shoulder." 

After  he  had  done  what  he  could  for  it  Luck 
spoke  bluffly.  "This  dashed  feud  is  off,  Cass. 
You've  wiped  the  slate  clean.  When  you  killed 
Blackwell  you  put  me  out  of  a  hostile  camp." 

"I'm  glad — so  glad.  Now  we'll  all  be  friends, 
won't  we?"  Kate  cried. 

Cass  looked  at  her  and  at  Curly,  both  of  them 
radiant  with  happiness,  and  his  heart  ached  for 
what  he  had  missed.  But  he  smiled  none  the  less. 

"Suits  me  if  it  does  you." 

He  gave  one  hand  to  Luck  and  the  other  to  his 
Daughter. 

Curly  laughed  gaily.  "Everybody  satisfied,  I 
reckon." 


CHAPTER  XX 
LOOSE   THREADS 

Curly  was  right  when  he  said  that  those  who 
knew  about  Sam's  share  in  the  planning  of  the  Tin 
Cup  hold-up  would  keep  their  mouths  close.  All 
of  the  men  implicated  in  the  robbery  were  dead 
except  Dutch.  Cullison  used  his  influence  to  get 
the  man  a  light  sentence,  for  he  knew  that  he  was 
not  a  criminal  at  heart.  In  return  Dutch  went 
down  the  line  without  so  much  as  breathing  Sam's 
name. 

Luck  saw  to  it  that  Curly  got  all  the  credit  of 
frustrating  the  outlaws  in  their  attempt  on  the  Flyer 
and  of  capturing  them  afterward.  In  the  story  of 
the  rescue  of  Kate  he  played  up  Flandrau's  part 
in  the  pursuit  at  the  expense  of  the  other  riders. 
For  September  was  at  hand  and  the  young  man 
needed  all  the  prestige  he  could  get.  The  district 
attorney  had  no  choice  but  to  go  on  with  the  case 
of  the  State  versus  Flandrau  on  a  charge  of  rustling 
horses  from  the  Bar  Double  M.  But  public  senti 
ment  was  almost  a  unit  in  favor  of  the  defendant. 

The  evidence  of  the  prosecution  was  not  so 
strong  as  it  had  been.  All  of  nis  accomplices  were 

337 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

dead  and  one  of  the  men  implicated  had  given  it 
out  in  his  last  moments  that  the  young  man  was 
not  a  party  to  the  crime.  The  man  who  had  owned 
the  feed  corral  had  sold  out  and  gone  to  Colorado. 
The  hotel  clerk  would  not  swear  positively  that 
the  prisoner  was  the  man  he  had  seen  with  the  other 
rustlers. 

Curly  had  one  important  asset  no  jury  could 
forget.  It  counted  for  a  good  deal  that  Alec  Flan- 
drau,  Billy  Mackenzie,  and  Luck  Cullison  were 
known  to  be  backing  him,  but  it  was  worth  much 
more  that  his  wife  of  a  week  sat  beside  him  in  the 
courtroom.  Every  time  they  looked  at  the  prisoner 
the  jurymen  saw  too  her  dusky  gallant  little  head 
and  slender  figure.  They  remembered  the  terrible 
experience  through  which  she  had  so  recently 
passed.  She  had  come  through  it  to  happiness. 
Every  look  and  motion  of  the  girl  wife  radiated 
love  for  the  young  scamp  who  had  won  her.  And 
since  they  were  tender-hearted  old  frontiersmen 
they  did  not  intend  to  spoil  her  joy.  Moreover, 
society  could  afford  to  take  chances  with  this  young 
fellow  Flandrau.  He  had  been  wild  no  doubt,  but 
he  had  shown  since  the  real  stuff  that  was  in  him. 
Long  before  they  left  the  box  each  member  of  the 
jury  knew  that  he  was  going  to  vote  for  acquittal. 

It  took  the  jury  only  one  ballot  to  find  a  verdict 
of  sot  guilty.  The  judg-e  did  not  attempt  to  stop 

338 


CROOKED    TRAILS   AND    STRAIGHT 

the  uproar  of  glad  cheers  that  shook  the  building 
when  the  decision  was  read.  He  knew  it  was  not 
the  prisoner  so  much  they  were  cheering  as  the 
brave  girl  who  had  sat  so  pluckily  for  three  days 
beside  the  husband  she  had  made  a  man. 

From  the  courtroom  Curly  walked  out  under  the 
blue  sky  of  Arizona  a  free  man.  But  he  knew  that 
the  best  of  his  good  fortune  was  that  he  did  not 
go  alone.  For  all  the  rest  of  their  lives  her  firm 
little  steps  would  move  beside  him  to  keep  him  true 
and  steady.  He  could  not  go  wrong  now,  for  he 
was  anchored  to  a  responsibility  that  was  a  con 
tinual  joy  and  wonder  to  him, 


The  End 


339 


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